


It Always Finds A Way

by Draco_sollicitus



Series: What's Left of Kisses [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Anxiety, Brief de-seruming, Brief trouble in paradise, Canon disabled characters, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Chapter 20 is epilogue, Comic Book Violence, Depression, Dom!Steve, Fluff, History Teacher Bucky, Jewish Bucky Barnes, Jewish Maximoff Twins, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Modern Bucky, Past Abuse, Past Experimentation, Pietro Maximoff Lives, Recovery, See chapter notes for detailed warnings, Sequel, Shrunkyclunks, Smut, Steve Rogers Will Fight Everyone - Including Himself, Superpowers, Therapy, flangst, see series notes for overall warnings about the series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-01-12 22:07:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 90,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18455564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draco_sollicitus/pseuds/Draco_sollicitus
Summary: Bucky Barnes always assumed he'd live a fairly normal life. He's a history teacher after all, a normal guy from Brooklyn with a passion for the arts and humanities, who wants to share that passion with a new generation. A chance encounter with Steve Rogers uproots that normal life, however, and sends Bucky on a very different path than the one he'd always imagined.Things tend to get complicated when you date Steve Rogers, living legend, Actual Hero; after spending some time in Hydra captivity, Bucky's faced with a long road to recovery. With the support of his loving boyfriend and the friends he's made in the Avengers, however, Bucky might come to realize that maybe, just maybe, he was made to be a hero, too.





	1. The Plot Thickens

**Author's Note:**

> "War is like love; it always finds a way."  
> \--Bertolt Brecht

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO and welcome back to this Modern!Bucky, Cap!Steve universe. Your response was overwhelming for "What's Left of Kisses," so I simply had to return to this universe and make sure everyone knew what happened to our darling Bucky after the events of WLoK's epilogue.
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> **Please keep in mind that this is a sequel; it definitely will not make sense unless you read the first one!**
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> ***
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> I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I love writing it; it picks up right where we left off, from Steve's POV (and, fair warning, a LOT of this fic is about struggling with mental health, and I’m pretty sure Steve will at the very least make you very mad at some point with some poor choices......)
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> _Notes_
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> ** means a POV shift
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> *** means a time jump
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> Always check my beginning notes for pertinent trigger warnings; always let me know if you think something should have been tagged in the chapter notes, and I'm happy to add it!!
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> **Warnings**
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> Mild violence  
> Anxiety/panic attacks  
> References to past torture and surgery  
> Suggestion of non consensual experimentation that leads to enhancement  
> PTSD references

* * *

 

Bone-tired, still warm from the day’s victory, Steve isn’t thinking much of anything when he walks into his home, nothing at all on his mind but his sweetheart and how sweet he’s going to kiss him in celebration of _finally_ putting those Hydra fucks behind bars.

“I’m home, babydoll!” He announces to the apartment, smiling when he hears the sound of the shower running.

He has half a mind to strip out of this too small suit and climb into the shower behind Bucky, kiss his shoulders soft and easy, maybe help him get a little dirtier before they get clean.

But then he remembers why Bucky hadn’t been with him on his trip to D.C. why Bucky’s probably in the shower at five in the afternoon, why there are six dirty teacups stacked up in the kitchen sink. Steve snorts to himself at the thought of a bleary-eyed Bucky shuffling through the kitchen wearing nothing but his softest socks and the shirt he stole from Steve a few months back. Shaking his head with fondness, he walks over to scrub the cups so Bucky can have something clean to drink out of.

He hums happily to himself while he stands at the sink, his suit jacket now off and hanging off the back of one of his barstools, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to the elbow; it’s not a tune he could specifically name, but it’s a light one, one that comes from deep in his gut, bubbling out as he swings his hips back and forth.

It’s odd. Before he met Bucky, Steve wouldn’t have thought of himself as a dancer. But in the half a year it’s been since they started seeing each other, Steve thinks there’s nowhere he’d rather be than in the arms of his sweetheart, slow dancing in the living room while some song from the period of time where he was in the ice plays over the radio.

He rolls his eyes at himself as he shuts off the water. _Sap._

The shower’s still running, and Steve goes to change in the bedroom, loosening his tie as he walks. He opts for comfortable sweats and a loose shirt, knowing that Bucky will come out of the shower fully exhausted and ready for a nap, the hot water draining him as it usually has in the last few months.

Things haven’t been quite the same since Hydra, not that Steve would expect them to be. This week’s bout with the flu is just another injury in a pile of bullshit that’s fallen on Bucky since Rumlow orchestrated his capture back in March.

Bucky flinches at loud noises still, and -- even though Steve hasn’t drummed up the courage to talk to him about it yet -- often wakes Steve up in the middle of the night, screaming and sobbing and begging _someone_ to stop hurting him. Bucky never seems to remember those moments in the light of day, and Steve knows he isn’t qualified for shit to talk to him about it, so he just holds him when clouds pass over his face, holds him in their bed when he’s trembling, holds him and kisses him and promises earnestly that he’ll never let him go.

He sits on the bed for a second and wipes his face, his own exhaustion heightening at the thought of drifting off for a nap with his boyfriend. Maybe when they wake up, they’ll both be up for a roll in the proverbial hay. It’s a tempting thought, and Steve immediately perks up; it’s helped along when the water shuts off.

There’s a soft thud, as though someone lost their balance and fell against the wall. Steve rises to his feet, frowning, but that’s the only noise before there’s the definite sound of the shower curtain being pulled back and feet on the linoleum.

 _Settle down,_ he thinks to himself, settling on the bed again. Half of him wants to be waiting at the door when Bucky comes out so he can scoop him up and carry him to bed, showering his face with kisses; half of him, the half that wins, tells him Bucky might find that infantilizing, even if Steve means it from an adoration standpoint.

There’s a prolonged silence in the bathroom, and Steve’s gut clenches at the thought of Bucky scowling at himself in the mirror. Whether or not his boyfriend has noticed, Bucky’s taken to being even harsher than normal about the scars on his shoulder, aggravated by his time spent with Hydra, and the new scars that litter his torso and chest, ones from weapons and some from surgery. Steve _knows_ it’s not how self-esteem works -- and God knows, his own struggles with self esteem could fill a goddamn history book and probably should at this point -- but he wishes there was some way to project how beautiful he found Bucky, some way Bucky could see himself the way Steve did.

_But it’s not how that works._

He pinches the bridge of his nose, and then his sensitive ears pick up on Bucky’s sharp, angry exhalation.

“ _Damnit._ ”

He is upset then.

Steve stands, intending on knocking on the bathroom door to see if Bucky wants him to order them something special for dinner, or if Bucky wants to go hang out with Lucky, Clint’s dog who has zero sense of personal boundaries, when he hears it.

A sharp snap and Bucky yelling in surprise.

“ _What the hell_?” There’s another slam, and the sound of plaster crumbling. “What the actual flying--”

The absolute worst is flying through Steve’s mind as he sprints to the bathroom, slamming into the corner when he rounds it, the thought that _somehow Hydra is here, they were hiding in the bathroom, they’ve got him, they’ve got Bucky, no, not again, no, not him_ \--

“Bucky?” His voice is tight with anxiety as he hammers on the door. There’s the sound of water flowing and spluttering, and someone’s heavy breathing. His knuckles soon grow numb from how hard he’s knocking, but Tony reinforced the walls in here for a reason, so he doesn’t relent.

“Bucky? Is everything alright in there?”

Still no response, and Steve thinks he might honestly be choking, he doesn’t know if he’ll laugh or cry if he opens the door and finds Bucky standing there with his headphones in, nursing a stubbed toe or something negligible, or if he finds Bucky with his head buried in the toilet bowl, still as sick as he was in the early morning. Nothing responds to the way he’s knocking at the door though, and that only drives his anxiety higher.

“Bucky! I don’t wanna scare you, sweetheart, but God, I’m going to bust down this damn door in a second, if you don’t tell me you’re okay. Even if you just knock, you don’t gotta say nothin’, just please, let me know if you need anything babydoll. Please. Say something.”

He rests his hand flat on the door and struggles to take a breath, his chest as tight as it would have been during one of his asthma attacks in ‘40.

“ _What the fuck_ -” Terror is etched into every syllable of Bucky’s whisper, and that does it.

“I’m coming in,” Steve announces; something clatters against the opposite wall. He sets his shoulder along the seam of the door and heaves once, twice, and then the door bursts open, now hanging off its hinges in a way that will have Tony’s teeth grinding.

Bucky’s huddled against the wall, shivering, hair plastered to his head, wearing nothing but a towel.

“Jesus.” Steve dives down to kneel at Bucky’s feet and surveys the bathroom for danger, something he should have done before jumping in, but it’s Bucky - Steve doesn’t seem to be able to think twice where he’s concerned.

There’s a hole in the wall, about five feet up, pieces of plaster stuck to Bucky’s towel. When Steve turns to look at the sink, he sees it’s missing a handle, and somehow it’s got water pouring out of it, as though the actual pressure system had been busted.

“Buck?” Steve studies his face anxiously for some kind of sign of what happened, but all he can see is that glazed over stare Bucky’s been wearing more often than not in the last few weeks. Things had been better when he’d come out of surgery, but his quiet spells were lasting longer and longer.

Steve knows recovery isn’t linear; his own PTSD symptoms hadn’t really kicked in until after the Battle of New York. Soldiers did well when there were still obvious battles to fight. It was the forced return to normalcy that followed that had almost killed him.

Now that Hydra’s current leaders were in custody, Steve had been warned by Dr. Eva, the therapist he sees once a week, that both he and Bucky would be experiencing some emotional turmoil.

This, though.

This doesn’t seem entirely internal.

“What happened, sweetheart?” Steve reaches out slowly to grab Bucky’s right shoulder, and he can feel the way he’s trembling.

“Sink.” Bucky’s eyes dart to the busted faucet, and Steve nods. It must have busted somehow, and scared Bucky shitless in the process.

“Do you need me to call Stark about it?” His eyes track the angle of the projected movement: if the missing handle had somehow exploded off the sink, it could have …

Steve frowns and restudies the angle.

Even if the handle had been somehow propelled, it wouldn’t have hit the wall there.

“...Bucky?”

Bucky just shakes his head miserably and curls his knees up to his chest, shaking visibly now. Steve shuffles on his knees to where he’s just spotted the handle, peeking out from behind the trash can near the toilet.

“Steve.” It’s a plea. A warning. Steve looks over his shoulder at Bucky, who’s staring at him with open fear on his handsome face. “Please don’t…”

Steve grabs the handle, not fully understanding what Bucky’s asking for him; that is, not until he looks down at the handle in his palm, bent and twisted into a strange shape.

It looks like … Steve curls his fingers around the stainless steel, testing the theory and sure enough, it matches, only a little thinner than his own fingers.

It’s been molded to someone’s grip. And there’s only one person it could be.

 _Is Stark pranking us_?

Not entirely out of the realm of possibility, but given that Stark was with Steve in DC all day, and often displayed a profoundly intense protective streak where Bucky was concerned, Tony was an unlikely candidate for trying to freak Bucky out while he was still recovering.

“Bucky.” Steve crawls back over to his boyfriend, who flinches miserably away from him when he tentatively holds the handle out. “What happened?”

Fear makes his voice steelier than he intends, and Bucky winces. Steve continues to hold out the broken handle, and finally Bucky reaches out, fingers trembling, and grips it.

Like some horrible version of Cinderella, it’s a perfect fit, and Steve stares down, not really understanding, until he does.

“...Buck--”

He doesn’t get to finish the name before Bucky jumps to his feet and shakes his head.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky chokes out, gripping the wall behind him like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

Steve stands as well, hands extended in what he hopes is a placating way.

“Bucky, sweetheart, it’s okay. We can - we can figure this out together--”

Bucky nods, but then pales and shakes his head. “I don’t - Stevie, I don’t feel right--”

Steve has to dive to catch him, and when Bucky doesn’t respond to the light shaking he applies to his shoulders, he looks around in panic.

“JARVIS, send Dr. Cho down immediately,” he barks at the AI, and he barely waits for the confirmation before he stands, lifting Bucky, and heads to the living room where he sets Bucky down tenderly, smoothing his hair back from his face.

“Bucky, please,” he chokes out, bowing his head and praying, not for the first time, to a God he thought he’d left behind in 1945.

***

**

Brock Rumlow tilts his head back against the padded wall, the same padded wall he’s been staring at for nearly two months straight.

It’s odd. He thought they would have killed him by now.

Not SHIELD, of course. They’re too goody-two-shoes for that shit, even if Brock has zero doubt that Steve Rogers would have taken his head off in the bunker if given half a chance. Thank God the twins were there - for whatever reason, they’d imprinted on Rogers, and he’d grown entirely too soft in the face of that trust.

No, Brock thought that Hydra would have found a way to him by now. The fact that he was still there, alive and in captivity, meant that they thought he was of more use _here_ and _in captivity._ The only thing he’s waiting for now is his new orders.

He isn’t sure what they’ll be, but here, on this entirely boring June day, he gets a pretty good hint.

Brock’s sitting there, minding his own business, staring at his blank padded wall, when he hears raised voices. Well. Voice, singular.

It’s a passionate disagreement, whatever’s happening, but something gets slammed around, and eventually, the light over the door buzzes green, and Brock’s eyes flick over to the exit, eyebrows - or really, what’s left of them - raising ever so slightly, the only sign of his interest in the proceedings.

In marches Captain America himself, wearing too short sweatpants, his shield strapped to his back, no armor in sight.

“This really isn’t a good--” The SHIELD agent, Hill, hisses at Rogers’s back, but his face is transformed by rage, looking like one of those avenging angels in a Renaissance painting.

It’s a good look for him, Rumlow thinks dispassionately as the captain crosses the cell in a matter of seconds and grabs him by the neck, clearly not caring that he’s left his entire body exposed to attack this way.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Brock wheezes out, the hand tightening compulsively around his throat. _He might actually kill me,_ he thinks with mild surprise. But no. He won’t kill him. He wants something.

“What did you do to him?” Rogers barks, shaking him like a rag doll by the grip he has around his throat. When Brock stares up at him, half in defiance, half in ignorance, he roars and throws him back on the bed.

“Steve--Captain Rogers!” Hill says angrily, but Rogers shrugs her anger off easily enough.

“ _What. Did. You. Do. To. Him._ ”

It clicks.

If James was missing, this would be a different conversation. There might be cuffs involved, Fury would make another appearance, a lawyer might even show up for the appearance of civility as they interrogated him.

This isn’t sanctioned. Something else happened.

The experiment must have worked.

Brock starts to laugh, delighted and almost _proud_ that Jamie was as strong as he’d told his bosses he would be.

“Why are you--” Rogers makes a noise of aborted rage, and Hill comes to stand at his elbow, holding his arm back when he goes for the shield. “Answer me! What did you do--”

“Is he alone?” Brock lifts his eyes up and smirks. “Tell me you didn’t leave him alone. Thought you woulda learned your lesson by now, Cap.”

“Fuck you,” Rogers spits out. “He’s _not_ \--”

Hill shakes her head, and Rogers falls silent.

“Good. I’d watch out for him if I were you.” Brock feels laughter bubbling out of his mouth again, too tickled pink to contain it. “Hydra always collects on its investments.”

The last thing he sees is Rogers’ fist flying at his face.


	2. Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky in the aftermath of the sudden discovery of his powers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky POV
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> **Warnings**
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> So. Much. Angst.
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> references to past experimentation/torture
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> Blood/pain (nosebleed causes the blood)
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> Betrayal by friends
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> A couple fights (their first fight!)
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> Character is medically restrained
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> Anxiety/Paranoia/Self-hating thoughts
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>  _Notes_  
>  If you really, really hate drama, and you think you might not be able to handle what happens in this chapter if our boys are at odds with each other, pop on down to the End Notes for a spoilery warning of the angst that goes down in this chapter.

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Bucky wakes to concerned voices discussing something in hushed tones over him.

_Great. I’m fainting now._

He never thought he’d see the day where he became a Victorian heroine complete with smelling salts and a fainting couch, but here he is on the sofa he picked out with Steve not even two weeks ago, while Dr. Cho steadily coaches him back into consciousness with her hand on his chest.

“Welcome back, Mr. Barnes.”

The small woman smiles kindly at him, and he can see Tony, Bruce, and Steve standing a respectable distance behind it. It looks like Bruce and Tony have their work cut out for them by holding Steve back; the blonde man’s face is etched with anxiety, one hand seeming to reach out between them as though Bucky could reach back.

As for now, his limbs are heavy with exhaustion, so Bucky remains on his back, looking up at Helen Cho as she checks his pulse.

“Can you try sitting up for me?”

He nods, grumbling to himself that he’s being asked if he can sit up, like he’s a newborn infant, but then he does try to sit up, and the world goes fuzzy on the edges again; he hisses and clutches his head while Dr. Cho grabs his arm and helps to settle him against the cushions, and a second later, Steve’s kneeling at his feet.

“Bucky?”

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, even though the headache that’s rising like a klaxon behind his eyes suggests he’s anything but. “How long was I out?”

“About ten minutes.”

That’s not that bad. Bucky’s gotten used to missing hours of his day now, hours spent staring at a wall or floating between conversations and appointments with almost zero awareness that he’s actually going through those motions of normalcy. Ten minutes is nothing in the grand scheme of things, so he shrugs and offers Steve and then Dr. Cho a smile.

“Probably dehydrated.” A glass of water is in his hand three seconds later, supplied by an eager and anxious Steve. “Thanks, babe.”

He drinks and pretends that he can’t feel Bruce and Tony’s eyes on his face, and when he’s drank about half, Steve takes the glass back while Dr. Cho prepares to read his blood pressure.

She hums to herself a few seconds later, something unreadable crossing her expression, but Bucky’s too tired to ask. Steve is a different story.

“What’s happening to him?”

Bucky half-glares up at Steve, who just asked a question as though Bucky wasn’t even there. Bruce seems to catch it, and he clears his throat and addresses Bucky, not Steve.

“We had our suspicions that Hydra was … running tests on you back in April.”

 _The IV embedded in his arm; the cold, tacky slime of the liquid running through his system; the inescapable knowledge of something_ wrong _settling deep into his body; the nightmares, the loss of time, the --_

“Huh.” Bucky nods and then takes the glass of water back from Steve, drinking for a long moment. “What kind of tests?”

“We think they were trying to replicate Erksine’s experiment.”

Steve makes an angry noise and stands abruptly, walking to the corner of the living room and dragging his hands through his hair.

“When were you going to tell me -- tell us?” Steve demands, spinning on his heel and jabbing a finger at Bruce, who merely lifts an eyebrow in response. Steve lowers his finger, looking chagrined, and Tony steps in.

“I tried. More than once. The readings for Buckaroo were off the chart; he … _you_ should have died, kid.” He looks at Bucky with unfeigned regret in his face. “The injuries you sustained, the damage to your brain. Even with Wanda helping, at the very least, you should still be in a coma right now.”

“So they - what they did to me, it saved me?” Bucky asks slowly, frowning.

_Did they need something from him, then? If they wanted him to live through that?_

No one seems to be quite on that track of thinking yet, and Dr. Cho speaks next, placing a slim hand on his bouncing knee. He hadn’t realized it had been moving, and he tries his best to still it.

“Your illnesses over the past months suggest that whatever they did to replicate the serum wasn’t without its negative effects. We’ve been proceeding as though the chemicals they used on you were intended to harm, but if what the captain says is true about what happened in the bathroom--”

Bucky blanches. He hadn’t expected Steve to tell them what had happened so quickly. It feels strangely like a lack of respect, a betrayal of their trust. He hadn’t even asked Steve to break down that door, after all. Why would Steve assume Bucky wanted people to know about … whatever the hell that was.

He glowers, and of course Steve notices.

“Bucky, there’s a hole in the wall. Did you - how did that happen?”

Steve approaches the sofa again, a little calmer than he was a minute ago, and settles on the cushions next to him. Bucky takes a steadying breath and looks into Steve’s face, reminds himself that Steve would never, ever do anything to hurt him. Not Steve, the love of his life, the man who turned the world upside down looking for him when he was taken. If Steve told Cho, Bruce, and Tony, it was to help him. Paranoia and anxiety are making his brain think differently, that’s all.

“I yanked the handle off of the sink without trying,” he admits, nausea curdling in his stomach at the thought of it. “I was just trying to turn it on, and I...I didn’t feel strong. I felt weak. But it ripped right off in my hand, and then I tripped and my elbow went through the wall. You broke the door down a few seconds later.”

“Thanks for that, by the way,” Tony adds with a hint of his normal teasing, but Steve’s expression doesn’t grow any less stony.

“Are you in any pain?” Bruce asks because of course Bruce would be the one to ask; Bucky feels an unexpected surge of sympathy.

“I don’t feel great,” he says carefully, knowing Steve’s on a hair trigger right now. “But I wouldn’t say I’m in pain?” _More like, everything feels wrong and all my nerves have been rewired. But that’s probably not what you’re asking?_

“That’s good that you don’t feel any pain.” Dr. Cho sits back and writes something on the tablet she keeps clipped to her side. “Please let me know if that changes. Or let Captain Rogers know.”

Bucky snorts. Like he’d be able to keep that a secret from Steve. His head hurts though, and snorting doesn’t help, so he groans slightly and closes his eyes while Tony starts talking about _something_ and Bruce chimes in here and there. Steve’s still at his side; he can tell from the heat radiating against his skin, and eventually, Steve takes his hand and squeezes it.

“Buck? Did you hear Tony?”

“No. Sorry, I --” Bucky opens his eyes and squints, halos forming around the soft lights overhead. That’s also not exactly normal. “Feel weird again.”

“That’s okay.” Tony shrugs and claps Bruce on the shoulder. “You’re surrounded by people who constantly feel weird!”

“No, Tony, you’re actually just weird,” Bruce corrects with a wry grin, and Tony makes an offended noise that’s too far pleased to suggest real offense was taken.

“Why, Brucie, how cruel!”

“Tony was asking if you remember any other moments of unexpected strength,” Bruce repeats, the smile not quite gone from his lined face. “Something odd that you wrote off because you thought you’d imagined it? Or anything that happened at the Hydra facility, anything you might have noticed that was out of the ordinary -- besides your, uhm, escape, of course, which we’ve been chalking up to sheer adrenaline….We might want to revisit that theory, actually.” Bruce adds the last part more under his breath, as though it’s a note for him to examine later.

Bucky wracks his brain, and that’s his real mistake. The headache growing behind his eyes exponentially increases as he searches his memories, and he groans again, louder this time and leans forward to combat the pressure in his head.

“Holy shit--” Bucky can hear Tony’s voice getting louder as the man rushes forward, but he can’t look up or let go of his tenuous grasp on remaining conscious. He wants to retch from how badly his head suddenly hurts, but then he’d be vomiting in front of three people he’d rather respect him, and he can’t do that, so he just grits his teeth and breathes shallowly.

“Does he get headaches like this often?” Dr. Cho asks Steve, or at least, Bucky thinks she asks Steve.

He loses the answer Steve gives regardless, but he knows the answer, and it’s a big fat fucking _no,_ no, he hasn’t had his head feel like it’s going to explode off his goddamn shoulders, thank you very much.

“He’s bleeding,” Bruce announces, cool hands gripping Bucky’s wrists. “We should sedate him--”

“No,” Bucky gasps, “No, I’m - I’m fine--”

There’s the sound of something breaking, barely noticeable to Bucky who’s gripped with a fresh wave of pain, and Dr. Cho shouts in surprise.

“Captain Rogers, calm down!”

“Do something, then!”

“Breathe.” Tony’s there, a hand between Bucky’s shoulder blades. “Breathe with me, okay? Don’t worry about anything else. Don’t think. Just breathe.”

Bucky grabs onto the lifeline Tony’s offering him, and his breath staggers once, twice, before he matches the rhythm Tony’s offering.

“There you go,” he encourages. “In for two, out for-- _Helen, get a sample_ \-- in for two, out for two--” Something soft presses under Bucky’s nose, and he flinches from it, but keeps following Tony’s voice until the pain behind his eyes lessens.

Within two minutes, Bucky can open his eyes again, and he sees Steve standing in front of one of their guest chairs, the back of which has cracked in half; Tony’s still sitting next to him, and Bruce is standing with his arms crossed in front of his chest, a frown firmly in place.

Dr. Cho is sealing a bloodied cotton ball in a small container.

He runs a hand under his nose and is unsurprised when it comes back bloody, but when he wipes it again, this time with his palm, the blood doesn’t seem to be still flowing. nj

“Ugh, gross.” Bucky makes a face, and Tony laughs.

“I think he’s going to be fine,” he reports, and Steve releases a noise like a wounded bear.

“We’ll have to run a few tests,” Dr. Cho counters, frowning to match Bruce. “Get some rest, Mr. Barnes, and when you’re feeling up to it, we can bring some equipment up here and do some scans to make sure you’re healthy.”

Steve doesn’t seem to be able to control whatever’s making his body shake like that, so Dr. Cho gives him a once over and sighs.

“A word, Captain Rogers?”

He nods, miserably, eyes flitting to Bucky for only a second before he follows the doctor out of the room, and towards the front door. They disappear through it with Steve throwing one last look over his shoulder at Bucky, and he’s left with Tony and Bruce.

“Don’t worry too much,” Tony assures him. “Freaky shit tends to happen around here. You’re in good company.”

“Do you need more water?” Bruce asks, offering Bucky a box of tissues.

Bucky nods, hating how helpless he feels; Tony bounces to his feet to get him a fresh glass, and Bruce gives him a tight smile. Right after Tony returns with the water, though, both he and Bruce’s communicators go off.

“Huh.” Tony squints down at it and frowns. “Guess we’re needed downstairs?”

“Why?” Bucky asks, fear seizing him. _Steve can’t go on a mission now, he just can’t - what if it’s Hydra, what if --_

Steve’s job is to save the world, he reminds himself, and it was his job long before he met Bucky. Bucky doesn’t get to tell Steve he isn’t going out on an important mission all because he’s feeling a bit shitty.

“It seems that Steve went tearing off after … Rumlow.” Tony hesitates saying the same, exchanging a look with Bruce. Bucky hisses and subconsciously lifts a hand to his temple, his head starting to throb again like an open wound.

“Is this providing back-up or are we holding Steve back?” Bruce stands and brushes nonexistent dust off his pressed slacks.

“If it’s the latter, they picked the wrong people. I’m one of the first in line to kick the crap out of that asshole.” Tony stands as well and smiles at Bucky. “They’re sending some agents up here to watch the floor. Holler if you need anything, and they’ll send for Cho or one of us, okay?”

Bucky nods miserably, worried now that Steve will do something stupid on his behalf and get in trouble, or worse, get hurt. Bruce and Tony wave before disappearing through the door, and Bucky can see three men wearing tactical gear lined up in the hallway before the door closes.

When he’s alone, though, he feels a little more able to think; and while thinking, his paranoia reaches new heights.

_Why do they need agents to watch Steve’s floor if they’re in the safest building in Manhattan, if not North America?_

Steve’s spoken to him about what happened in D.C., how he had to claw his way out of an elevator, fighting against men who he’d fought beside, a betrayal he’s never quite recovered from. He says all the time that he knew something was wrong the second he set foot in the elevator, and Bucky feels a similar dread building in his gut.

It’s confirmed a second later when JARVIS speaks without warning.

[ _Mr. Barnes?_ ]

“Yeah, JARVIS?”

[ _Captain Rogers had an emergency exit installed two years ago. There are no guards currently stationed at this exit._ ]

“...JARIVS, what’s happening?” Bucky staggers to his feet, confused and bleary. He just wants to lie down, but something tells him that won’t be good.

[ _I’ve been programmed to respond to certain situations. A precautionary security measure by Mr. Stark. It seems that whoever called Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner away did not send them to the floor Captain Rogers is currently on, and have blocked access to return to your floor from the regular elevator._ ]

“What?” His heart’s racing now as he stumbles down the hallway to the bedroom, where he grabs a sweatshirt and jeans and pulls them on, almost falling over.

[ _They wished to separate you. I recommend leaving as soon as possible._ ]

“I don’t know if I--”

[ _Your vitals are stable. You will be able to do this. You must leave now._ ] The hallway lights up, and Bucky follows JARVIS’s instructions until he comes to a door he’d always assumed was the Tony Stark version of an HVAC storage closet. It opens with a faint hiss, and he discovers it’s really a staircase winding down through the building.

[ _The only entrance is here, and the only exit is eight floors down, right into the elevator bay. No one is stationed there, and you should be able to exit through the lobby and head to the park._ ]

“The park?” Bucky enters the staircase and tries not to flinch at the feeling of cold cement under his feet; he’d forgotten to grab shoes.

[ _Captain Rogers selected it as a rendezvous point in case of emergency._ ] Steve’s own lingering distrust was coming in handy, but still -- Bucky feels like this could have been in the welcome packet when he moved in with him. [ _I will alert him silently to your location when he exits the SCIF._ ]

The front door to the apartment opens, and he almost yelps in surprise at the sounds of men shouting something about _he’s not in here_ \-- definitely not a doctor visit.

The door closes silently behind him, and Bucky jogs down the stairs, moving faster and faster on every flight, his headache forgotten for the time being.

He bursts out onto the elevator bay less than a minute later and barrels to the elevator JARVIS is holding open. It’s evening, so no one seems to be moving around Avengers Tower on this particular floor, which is typically used for casual meetings for higher-ranking SHIELD employees.

“Thanks, JARVIS,” Bucky says, his breathing still strangely even despite his sprint here.

[ _Good luck, Mr. Barnes._ ]

The doors open into the lobby forty-five seconds later, and Bucky slips out, his hood pulled up around his head as he shuffles towards the doors. No one seems to be looking at him at all, but he slips into a group of younger people wearing yoga clothing, and he’s out the door with no one having spotted him.

When he heads west towards the park, however, he hears someone shouting after him.

“ _Barnes!”_

He doesn’t hesitate, just jumps over the fire hydrant in front of him and sprints across the lanes of traffic outside the Tower, his feet stinging slightly from the hard contact with the ground. He _refuses_ to be caught again, this won’t happen to him, not again, not --

What does SHIELD want from him?

He could stop and ask, but Bucky isn’t in the mood to be lied to or manipulated, so he keeps sprinting, movement his only thought as he dodges and weaves through pedestrians and then traffic again. Bucky doesn’t stop sprinting until he’s in the park, a park he and Steve frequented early in their relationship, and he slows to a stroll, his heart rate elevated from panic, but his muscles and lungs absolutely fine despite the fact that he’s been running as hard as he can -- which he’s pretty sure was faster than he can ever recall -- for over five minutes.

Bucky ducks onto a bench under a tree and waits, a high garden wall to his back, and a clear line of sight to every other side of this part of the park. He tries to calm his heart rate, to no avail, and he makes himself sit still and wait for Steve to find him, the way JARVIS said he would.

It isn’t Steve that finds him.

It’s Natasha.

“Busy day?” She calls out as she crosses the grass towards him, hands tucked in the pockets of a well-fitted jacket. It’s unseasonably cool for a June evening, and Bucky’s glad he thought to grab a sweatshirt.

“Something like that.” He stands shakily and smiles at her, but something in her face makes him freeze in suspicion. Movement along the outside of the park catches his attention, and he realizes she isn’t alone. “What the fuck is this, Natasha?”

They’re friends. That’s the worst part of this - Natasha sat with him once when he was having a bad time while Steve was on a mission and ate Rocky Road with him, even though he found out later from a grinning Clint Barton that Natasha absolutely despises almonds.

“Nothing bad,” she soothes, pulling her hands out of her pockets so he can see they’re empty. “You disappeared, and I came to find you, to get you somewhere safe.”

“Well, JARVIS told me to get the fuck out of dodge, and who am I to fight with an omniscient AI?” Bucky goes for breezy and knows he fails -- something falters in Natasha’s expression, though, like she’s surprised JARVIS would tell him to run.

“JARVIS operates under an overabundance of caution,” she allows. “It’s not always a good thing; he was made by imperfect humans.”

“Still though. I don’t understand why all this is necessary if you’re here out of concern for my safety.”

A man in the distance shouts something, and he stiffens in response, glaring in the direction it came from. Natasha’s eyes never leave his face.

“You have to come back with me, James. SHIELD needs to speak with you. There are some things that have to happen.”

Disbelief courses through him - he isn’t _owned_ by anyone. He doesn’t owe SHIELD shit.

“Why? I’m not - I’m not like Steve. I didn’t sign my life away to SHIELD for this to happen. They don’t own me. I didn’t - I didn’t ask for this, okay? I’m not going to hurt anyone--”

“James, please. This doesn’t have to be messy.”

Natasha studies him warily, and he eyes the perimeter of the park, wondering if he can make it if he sprints now. He can see men wearing tactical gear at six distinct locations, his focus narrowing in on them better than it could have a day ago, and the shift in his vision almost has him retching from what feels like motion sickness.

A thought occurs to him.

“How do you know it’s SHIELD?” Bucky asks coldly.

“What?” Natasha has yet to make any sort of move that suggests on the offense, which is precisely how he knows she already is.

“How do you know you’re not being asked to take me in by Hydra?”

It surprises her, and she blinks. He counts it as a victory.

_Keep talking. Steve will be here soon, JARVIS said Steve picked this park, he’ll help you get out of this, you can run away together --_

“You’ve worked for them before without knowing it.” Bucky runs his thumb along his other knuckles, debating if he can punch his way out of this one; Natasha’s eyes track the movement and then narrow. “I hope you can understand that I refuse to be taken by Hydra again.”

“Not Hydra. Just SHIELD, who’s worried about you,” Natasha says, and it doesn’t look like she’s wearing a mask, but then again, she’s a professional. “This order came right from Fury, and I can assure you, he’s definitely not Hydra.”

“ _Order_.” Bucky snorts. “Wasn’t aware I qualified as that much of a threat.”

“It’s for your safety,” Natasha insists, and she takes a step forward.

Bucky startles back, fists raised in a mimicry of a defense, but other than his escape from the Hydra facility, he hasn’t been in an actual fight since 2002, when he punched Jonah Ackermann in the nose at Hebrew school for getting fresh about Wendy Cohen’s figure; Natasha can clearly tell how bad his stance is, but she doesn’t smirk or mock him for it. If anything, she looks sad.

“I’m not here to hurt you, James.”

“That’s why all your friends have guns, right?” Bucky tilts his head towards the clump of SHIELD agents who he knows are fifty feet to his left. “Because you’re not here to hurt me?”

Terror and anger are making him bolder than he’d expect -- a large part of him is wondering why he isn’t just surrendering and curling up on the ground, crying from exhaustion and confusion like he really wants to. But something in him is saying _fuck this,_ and another part of him is more than willing to die before he’s dragged off against his will again.

Natasha’s distracted by something then, and she puts a hand to her ear and listens to the comms for a second; if Bucky focuses just slightly, he can almost make out a man’s voice, relaying a clipped, quick message to the red-headed spy. She nods.

“Copy.”

“Copy what?” Bucky asks, eyeing her hands for any sign of a weapon. He’s in the grip of a paranoia he can’t quite shake: they won’t shoot him in public, will they? That’s not how this will go down, it’s bad optics --

It makes sense a few seconds later when Bucky catches the sound of rapid footsteps.

“Bucky, oh my God--”

Steve’s hurtling towards him, panic written all over his expression, and Bucky almost cries from relief.

“Stevie--” He runs to meet him, and they collide in the middle.

Steve holds him tightly, and he closes his eyes, pressing his face into Steve’s chest.

“JARVIS told me to run, he said SHIELD separated us on purpose, he - he - and then Natasha--”

“I know,” Steve kisses the side of his head reverently. “It’s okay, Bucky, it’s okay.”

“I’m so scared,” he admits, choking the words out and sobbing. “I don’t understand what’s happening to me--”

“We’re going to figure it out, babydoll.” Steve kisses his forehead this time and pulls away so he can tuck some of Bucky’s loose hair behind his ear. “Jesus, sweetheart, where are your shoes?” Steve’s eyes widen when he looks down, and Bucky shrugs.

“JARVIS says to run, I run.” Bucky can’t manage a smile to match his light words. “Can we - can we get out of here?” He knows Steve owns a cabin upstate, he’d built it himself in the time before the Battle of New York, and they’ve been talking about escaping up there after Bucky’s health improved.

“We can’t.” Steve frowns at him softly.

“Why not?” Bucky frowns back, not understanding.

“We have to--” Steve doesn’t finish his sentence, but his eyes flicker over Bucky’s shoulder where the dozens of agents are waiting.

“Fuck no. I’m not going back with them. No.” Bucky grips Steve’s arms tightly and scowls. “I’m only leaving here with you, and I’m not going back to the Tower.”

“I don’t know if we have a choice, sweetheart,” Steve says, and Bucky opens his mouth to argue back because when has Steve ever given up this easily?

At least, he _would_ argue back, but something strikes him in the right shoulder, hard, and his breath escapes his body in a silent _oh_ of surprise.

Bucky blinks up at Steve, his limbs getting heavy, eyes blinking. “St--?”

Steve is pale, eyes wide with _something_ , and he dives to catch Bucky as another sharp sting attacks Bucky’s lower back.

It doesn’t hurt, not exactly, but the drowsiness weighing him down tells him exactly what just happened. What Steve just let happen.

“ _Steve?_ ”

The world goes black.

***

He wakes up in a hospital room, one a little more sterile than the one he recuperated in after he was rescued from Hydra, no bright and cheery window to liven up the place. His clothes are gone, and he’s wearing a soft cotton gown instead. Bucky groans and lifts a hand to wipe some of the grittiness from his eyes, but his movement is stopped a foot away from his face.

“What the--”

There’s a reinforced padded cuff on his wrist, a chain connecting it to the bed he’s on. The bed he’s strapped to. His legs are pinned down, and not for the first time today, Bucky’s seized with horrifying panic. His heart picks up, and the monitor at his side goes wild with it, his breath coming in panicked gasps.

“You’re awake--” Steve’s here, and he runs across the room from the door that had just opened, flying to Bucky’s side. “Calm down, it’s okay, you’re safe--”

“Says who?” Bucky gasps out, lifting a manacled hand for Steve to inspect.

“They were worried about you hurting yourself,” Steve explains in a whisper, and Bucky snorts.

“What the _fuck_?” He shakes his head. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“They said you might be disoriented when you woke up,” Steve contests, face pinched with regret and sadness. “They said it was a precaution.”

“Okay then. I’m not disoriented. I won’t hurt myself.” Bucky holds his other hand out towards Steve. “Open the cuffs.”

Steve sags into the chair at his side and grips his hand. It’s not what Bucky wants, but he’ll take it for right now.

“I don’t have the key.”

“Like that’s ever stopped you.” Bucky squeezes Steve’s hand. “Just break through them.”

“I can’t. They’re … supersoldier proof.”

 _Which is why I’m wearing them,_ Bucky realizes. _Hydra tried to turn me into Steve, and now they’re worried about what else they turned me into._

He killed dozens of men that day in the facility after all. He’s never felt bad about it for a second. They think he’s a monster. They know he’s a monster.

And Steve probably knows too, which is why he was fine with distracting Bucky long enough for them to…

“How could you do that to me?” Bucky whispers, pulling his hand away from Steve, blinking back the urge to cry which rises hot and real in his throat.

“ _What_?”

“How could you...how could you stand there and let them…”

“Baby, please.” Steve’s voice breaks, his trembling hands lifting, reaching out to Bucky, but Bucky looks down stubbornly and won’t match his gaze. “I didn’t mean for--”

“You were sent to collect me,” Bucky says slowly, lifting his eyes from the thick blanket covering his lap.

He twists his wrist slightly against the padded cuff helping to pin him down, feeling miserable and humiliated, an anger he’s never felt before, at least, not against the man sitting next to him, rising in his chest like a phoenix, unstoppable, seeking destruction, annihilation.

“No.” Steve shakes his head earnestly, eyes wide. “No, I had _no_ idea they would - that they were going to -- Bucky, please, you’re my everything, I would never --”

“Fine. You didn’t know they were going to shoot me. Like an animal.” Bucky spits the words out, and Steve flinches. _Fine._ He tells himself it doesn’t hurt to see the pain on Steve’s face. “But: yes or no. You were told my location. You were told I was potentially dangerous. You were told that you were the only person I would trust when I was upset. You were told to approach me. Yes or no.”

Steve looks at him, mouth hanging open slightly, eyes welling with tears.

“Yes or _no,_ Steve,” Bucky repeats, throat tight, his own eyes far from dry.

“...Yes,” Steve whispers, and Bucky nods, unsure if he’s more angry or less angry now that it’s been confirmed.

Dr. Eva is the only person who knows how Bucky feels about trust -- who fully knows how Bucky really would follow Steven Rogers to the ends of the earth without question, how it’s only the sight of Steve who keeps him tethered to reality when things get rough. SHIELD must have pushed her for some sort of profile on him, sent Steve in after him --

His mind is whirring like it never has before, probably a result of the shitty off-brand serum coursing through his veins, the shitty off-brand serum that SHIELD doubtlessly has an interest in.

“So, you were sent to collect me for them.” Bucky returns to his original point, pushing away the betrayal he feels just long enough to get his thoughts into words.

“I wasn’t--”

“You’re the brightest tactical mind in modern history,” Bucky laughs, but it sounds more like a sob, more like his heart breaking. “Tell me you don’t expect me to be _stupid_ enough to believe that the thought didn’t occur to you, that they would use my trust in you to take me down. Like a criminal. When all I did was run away.”

“Buck--”

“Go away.” Bucky shakes his head and leans back on his pillows, glaring up at the ceiling.

“No.” He can’t see Steve, but he can imagine the way his jaw is standing out in a straight, stubborn line right now. “No, I’m not leaving you. I love you, and we’ll work through this--”

“Will we?” Bucky blinks up at the ceiling, ignoring the tears tricking into his hairline. His heart feels like it’s going to rip in half, literally and figuratively, and his voice is shaking almost enough to undercut the weight of his words. “I’m glad you can feel so confident about that, Captain.”

It’s intended to wound, and Bucky can thank the serum for how he’s able to hear the pained inhalation from the man at his side.

“I’m not going--”

“Get out.” Bucky turns and faces the opposite wall, barely able to complete the movement thanks to the cuffs around his wrists. The reinforced chains on them clink against the bed’s railings, and he lets them rattle for effect, knowing the message won’t be lost on Steve. It’s childish of him, but he’s beyond caring. “You people have done enough to me today.”

“Bucky.”

He doesn’t breathe, doesn’t so much as blink, the word hovering in the air between them, layered with Steve’s powerful guilt, and Bucky feels a vindictive sort of victory when Steve takes a shaky breath and stands.

“I love you,” he whispers, and Bucky doesn’t turn around or acknowledge that he’s heard, the jagged pieces of his dignity rising up and forming a fragile shield around himself, protecting him from giving in.

The door opens and closes a minute later, and Bucky rolls over onto his back to glare at the ceiling.

Without warning, he starts to cry, his chest heaving, his heart feeling like it’s shattered and will never be put back together again; there’s no one left in the world Bucky can trust, no safe harbor to return to. There’s nothing left, and it’s all Hydra’s fault, the evidence of what they’ve done etched into his genetic code, broken and wrong and unfixable. Just like Bucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILERY NOTE IF YOU NEED IT:
> 
> Steve accidentally/maybe not so accidentally betrays Bucky when Bucky's trying to avoid being studied by SHIELD, and they have a horrible, nasty fight (Well, Bucky fights, and Steve takes the brunt of it.) Bucky's in a terrible headspace and says/thinks things that aren't necessarily true/kind.
> 
>  
> 
> **End Note**
> 
> Will our boys reunite in chapter three? How will Draco ever apologize for this angst? 
> 
> Excuse me while I dive into this conveniently placed shrubbery until chapter three goes up!


	3. Responsibility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve deals with the aftermath of his admittedly terrible choices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _ducks out from behind shrubbery to yeet this chapter onto the archive_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Steve POV
> 
>  
> 
> **Warnings**
> 
>  
> 
> Continued angst  
> Our couple continues to fight  
> References (non-graphic) to forced experimentation

 

 

* * *

 

 _“Get out._ ”

The agony and rage contained in those two words will haunt Steve into whatever grave he’s finally blessed with, he’s sure.

Instead of being at Bucky’s side like he should be, Steve has to watch through the cameras as the man he loves breaks down in a bed, unable to even wipe his tears away thanks to the _security measures_ Fury had been so adamant about.

Steve’s own tears are coursing down his face without any sign of stopping, and it’s all he can do to press a hand up to the monitor and hope that Bucky can somehow pick up on how badly he wants to be with him in this moment; but, Bucky told him to go, and as stubborn as Steve Rogers is, he respects Bucky’s wishes, and will continue to respect them as much as he’s able.

Fury approaches him, and he makes no effort to wipe his face clean, just looks up miserably and scowls.

“You lied to me. He isn’t a danger to himself,” he snaps, standing up as tall as he can, retracting his hand reluctantly from the screen. “And honestly, Fury, I don’t think he ever was.”

“We don’t know that.” Fury observes him coldly, his remaining eye scrutinizing Steve’s disheveled appearance.

He gives in and wipes his cheeks angrily with the back of his hand.

“I _do_ know that.” Steve balls his hands into tight fists and glowers at the head of SHIELD who technically really does own him. “Let him go.”

“At this point, do you really think he’d stay if we did?”

“Of course not,” Steve scoffs. “You made damn sure of that. He’s been through enough -- and not just today. I can’t believe you’d send me in there and pretend that he’d -- that he was going through some kind of mental break. I can’t believe you’d just shoot him -- you told me he and I would walk outta there together, unless he was a danger to himself or me. And he wasn’t. He was _fine._ He is fine -- he’s hurt, and betrayed, and confused, but he isn’t unstable.”

Fury sighs and shakes his head before handing Steve a thick dossier.

“What is this?”

“What we should have told you about while you were playing house with Mr. Barnes.” Fury looks at him one last time and then turns away. “You’ll see why we took every precaution in bringing him back in.”

Steve flips the folder open as Fury begins to walk back down the corridor. He scowls a second later.

“You know I can’t read Russian, _Nick_ ,” he calls out to the retreating director. Fury waves over his shoulder to acknowledge that he’s heard, and Steve grits his teeth, the gaping wound in his chest still aching.

On screen, Bucky continues to cry.

***

Three hours later, he’s in the gym, taking his anger and anxiety out on some of Stark’s reinforced punching bags when his comms beep urgently.

He taps in the code to the device that doubles as a wristwatch and doesn’t bother to hide his sigh of irritation when a holograph of Nick Fury’s face appears.

“Yes?”

“Captain. Tell me you aren’t as stupid as I’m afraid you are.”

Steve stiffens in surprise and then anger -- hasn’t he ruined _everything_ at Fury’s orders? Now he has the gall to call Steve up and, what, taunt him for how he tries to process his anger at the day and himself?

“Goodbye, Director Fury.” He goes to shut the comms off, but Fury stops him.

“Where is he?”

“Where is who?”

Steve looks around the gym, but only Barton is there, running the obstacle course. He slips while Steve is watching and lands spectacularly on his ass; Steve winces in sympathy through his own current state of agony. “No one else is here, Fury,” he reports. “Unless you count Barton.”

“I can see that Barton is in there with you.” Steve’s nostrils flare -- how much of an eye _do_ they have on all of them? It’s something that’s been constantly bothering him since Project Insight, the fact that SHIELD has a lock on him at every point of his day. There’s never any privacy.

He remembers all too well the knock-down, drag-out fight he had with SHIELD’s top people when he started dating Bucky, when he vehemently refused any sort of surveillance on Bucky’s home. Little did he know, Tony ignored that refusal, and luckily he did because that was the only reason they were able to pull footage of Brock stalking Bucky.

His stomach curdles in the five seconds it takes for him to react to Fury’s cold tone, and he almost, _almost_ misses what Fury says next, if not for the subject of the matter.

“Barnes is out of containment.”

“I beg your --” _Containment?_ Steve wants to rage, _at least we’re calling a spade a spade._ “What do you mean he’s _out_?”

“He’s not in his room, and his restraints had been severed.” Fury manages to pull off an impressive one eye scowl that Steve would be irritated by if his heart weren’t frozen in his chest. “That’s what I mean by _he’s out of containment._ ”

“Where’s Rumlow?” Steve’s already jogging for the elevator, trying to keep his voice steady when his whole body feels like it might shake apart. “Did he -- did they grab him? What’s--”

“There was no security breach, and Rumlow is still in…”

“Containment?” Steve snaps, hoping that Fury’s just realized the irony of using the same terminology for a psychopathic Nazi fuckwad who just won’t die, and a soft-spoken history teacher who’s a victim of abuse and torture.

 _Fucking --_ Bucky must be so terrified right now. Steve should have just parked his ass in the monitor room, no matter how painful it was, but Pepper had shown up an hour ago and urged him to distract himself, so he’d listened.

“So where the _fuck_ is he?” Steve grits his teeth as the elevator finally arrives and barely resists the urge to punch the doors when they take their time opening.

“We have no idea. Please tell us when you find out.”

 _Not fucking likely,_ Steve wants to spit, but he ignores the impulse and instead hangs up viciously on the director. He hits the button for Tony’s lab, but the elevator doesn’t move.

_Oh, don’t let this be the day where technology decides to crap out once and for all._

He hits the button again, this time with enough force that he can hear the metal creak. Still nothing.

“JARVIS? Take me to Tony’s lab, please.”

[ _I’m sorry, Captain. Mr. Stark has asked for privacy on that floor._ ]

“I need to speak with him.” Steve realizes that he’s bouncing on his heels, causing the elevator to rock slightly. “Please. It’s urgent. Beyond urgent.”

There’s a pause and then: [ _Mr. Stark would ask that you please come back later._ ]

“Ask him again.” Steve tugs at his hair, trying not to scream. _Of all the days for Tony to decide to hole up in his lab --_ “Please. Tell him I’m not going away.”

Another, longer, pause.

[ _Very well, sir. Please leave your communication device on the elevator when you exit_.]

“Fine.” Steve rips the watch off -- he hates that fucking thing, anyway -- and chucks it in the corner of the elevator. “Are we good?”

The elevator’s already begun to move, and he swears JARIVS sighs at him. He doesn’t call the AI out on it, though, not when JARVIS knows … probably everything there is to know about Steve Rogers.

In the short time it takes to get to Tony’s lab, and Steve’s run the gamut on every possible awful thing that could have happened to Bucky Barnes.

 _Hydra kidnapped him_  -- Fury seemed pretty confident that wasn’t the case.

 _He ran away, and Steve will never see him again_  -- More likely.

 _A.I.M. heard they had another supersoldier and kidnapped him_  -- That could be it.

 _Loki wanted to fuck with Steve, so he kidnapped Bucky_  -- Another possibility….

 _Doctor Doom heard they had another supersoldier, designed and then wore a fake Steve Rogers mask, snuck in, and kidnapped Bucky_ \-- maybe Steve should talk to a therapist about his lingering anxiety over Bucky being kidnapped.

The doors hiss open, and Steve barely waits for there to be room enough for him to pass through before he’s sprinting out into Tony’s lab.

[... _You’re welcome_ ] JARVIS chides as he runs, and Steve waves apologetically over his shoulder.

There’s no sound of drills running or big machines groaning, but Steve discovers Tony sitting in front of a screen attached to a massive metal box, squinting up at a series of numbers while he types.

“Can you do that again?” Tony speaks into a microphone, and then nods to himself as the numbers on the screen shift slightly. “Jesus Christ.” Tony tilts his head so that Steve can see an earpiece tucked into place and then snorts, still apparently unaware that Steve’s arrived. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Tony.” Steve knows that he’s practically vibrating with anxiety, so it’s odd that Tony barely spares him a once over when he speaks. “I need to talk to you.”

Nothing answers him but the sound of more typing, and a few more pings from the large metal box Tony’s stationed in front of, and Steve doesn’t exactly scream in his throat, but he comes close. Finally, that gets Tony’s slightly less divided attention.

“About what?” Tony leans back in his chair and studies Steve, the picture of nonchalance. Which is odd, considering Tony Stark has been nonchalant all of never.

“Bucky’s missing,” he reports, his voice breaking slightly on the second word. “I - I need your help. Please?”

“Well, this is awkward.” Tony tilts back further in his chair and folds his hands behind his head.

“Why is it awkward?”

“Because Barnes isn’t missing?”

“What do you _mean_ he isn’t--”

A door on the side of the metal box hisses open, and Bucky walks out, looking shaken and pale, but upright and controlled in his movements all the same.

“Buck!” Overpowering joy seizes Steve, and he can’t even be bothered to be upset that Bucky did go missing because he’s here, and he’s safe, and --

“You said we’d have at least an hour.” Bucky shakes his head at Tony, before turning red-rimmed eyes on Steve. “I’m not fucking going back.”

“I’m not --” Steve’s agape for a few seconds, astounded that Bucky would assume that’s why Steve is here, that he wouldn’t just assume Steve was here out of complete and total concern for Bucky’s wellbeing, but then he remembers the events of the last twelve hours and snaps his mouth shut and nods miserably.

“I’m going to go sit over there.” Bucky jabs a finger to the left, mainly addressing Tony now. “You guys can … talk about whatever. I’ll just be…” he trails off and shakes his head. “Yeah.”

He trudges away, favoring his right side, one arm wrapped around his middle, and Steve’s heart aches. A second later, a metal object rams into Steve’s stomach, and he hisses, more in surprise than pain.

“What the hell, Tony?”

“What the hell _Tony?_ More like, what the hell _Steve_!” Tony jabs him again with the metal device and rolls towards him threateningly on his chair. Steve backs up even though it’s not registering as a real threat at the moment.

“Fury’s going to realize you took him,” Steve snaps in as quiet a voice as he can muster. “And then where will he be? Huh? He’ll get in trouble, so--” _So just let me take him, and he and I will run away like he asked me to last night, and we’ll disappear and finally be happy where no one can touch us, and_ \--

He doesn’t get to finish his thought, though, because Tony jabs him again.

“Trouble? You’re honestly worried about him getting in--” Tony whacks him on the arm and shoulder with his extendable device, and Steve swats at it -- “I did nothing wrong! He did nothing wrong! He was in a room that I built and own, and I brought him to a different room that I, guess what, _built and own._ ” Tony holds his hands up demonstrably before smacking Steve yet again with the device. “If Fury or the good captain has a problem with that, I have no problem evicting one or both of you from this building that I -- oh, that’s right -- built and own!”

“I’m not here for Fury,” Steve begins, but Tony scowls at him.

“So, JARVIS was just having a lark when he told me that you spoke to Director Fury and a second later, demanded to speak to me?”

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose and doesn’t even look up when the metal device prods him in the thigh.

“I’m not -- _stop it_  -- Fury told me he was missing. I hope you can -- _Jesus, Tony, stop it_ \-- I hope you can understand--” Steve finally grabs the device and grips it tightly -- “That I was worried about Bucky.”

Tony’s expression doesn’t soften or waver, but he does let go of the prodding device and stands up, brushing dust off his pant legs.

“Do you know what it’s like to be held against your will?” His voice is cold, dangerous in a way Steve’s never heard.

“I--”

“Do you?” Tony shakes his head and answers for Steve. “No. You don’t. The only time you’ve ever been tied down, you signed up for it. You’ve never been held captive. You’ve never woken up to restraints you didn’t ask for.” The words cut at Steve worse than a vibranium knife would. “I have, okay? I know what that’s like. I know what it’s like to be held against your will -- and you and Fury made sure that damage went a step further with James because he _trusted_ you.”

Tony turns on his heel without another word, leaving Steve to follow him and wring his hands together, his heartbeat in his ears; he thinks he might actually throw up, something he hasn’t done since the Tilt-a-Whirl at Coney Island seven decades ago.

Bucky’s sitting in a chair not unlike the one modern dentists use, his feet tucked underneath him while a few of Tony’s clumsy robots run scanners over him. One nearly falls off the arm of the chair, and Bucky _tsks_ and scoops it up, holding it closer to his chest. “Careful, buddy.”

He smiles fondly at the robot and looks up, his soft expression freezing at the sight of Steve and Tony approaching.

“If my robots end up liking you better than me, I’ll throw you out,” Tony plunks down next to Bucky and starts to rifle through a small box of tools. “Or I’ll break them down for scraps.”

“You wouldn’t,” Bucky says lightly, his eyes dark and heavy as he takes in Steve’s appearance.

Steve keeps waiting for the moment where the walls crack, where Bucky smiles at him the way he would have a day ago, where Bucky holds his arms out and lets Steve fall into them, lets him cry on his chest and grovel and beg the way he wants to.

Bucky blinks; he looks away.

“I wouldn’t,” Tony agrees, unaware or uncaring of how Steve’s falling to pieces a few feet away. “Can you -- this is weird, but just breathe into this for me, okay?” He hands Bucky the end of a tube, which he hooks up to a blinking box. Bucky complies, and then Tony whistles under his breath a second later.

“What are you--”

“I’m running the tests I would have liked to run on Bang-for-your-Buck yesterday before all that fuss was made.” Tony doesn’t look over to Steve but up at Bucky. “If what I’m seeing is right, you’re actually more healthy than the Captain is.”

“Huh.” Bucky makes a face. “Don’t feel all that healthy.”

“Yeah, well, I hear stress can be pretty damaging.” Tony grins and shakes his head. “Not that I know anything about stress.”

“Course not.” Bucky grins back, but the smile slips again when he looks over at Steve.

“And if you’re healthy, there’s no reason to submit to further SHIELD testing.” Tony taps his fingers against his chair quickly, a small sign of his actual mental state. “In fact, I’m surprised you didn’t just run when they tried to take you in. If the tests we ran in there were accurate, you’re actually almost twice as fast as the captain, and almost as strong.”

Steve rubs his jaw, the information too much for him to handle at the moment. “The serum worked?” He asks quietly, eyes locked on Bucky’s face. Bucky gazes steadily back at him, and Tony keeps typing on a tablet he has on his lap. “He - then why has Bucky been so sick?”

“His body’s been rejecting it, but it looks like it’s been stabilized now. He won’t be as beefy as you are, probably ever, but…” Tony chucks the tablet to the side and pats Bucky on the knee. “I think you’re out of the woods as far as debilitating illness goes.”

“That’s good to hear. I was getting sick of seeing my food twice,” Bucky jokes, his eyes not leaving Steve’s face.

“This is good,” Steve protests. “This is -- if Fury hears you’re better--”

“Fury?” Tony turns around, eyebrows almost hiding in his hairline. “You wanna bring Fury in on this? That’s cold, even for you, Capsicle.”

Tony hasn’t called him that in years, and Steve winces like it’s a physical wound.

“He doesn’t need to know all of it, just that Bucky’s healthy--”

“So I can be trained to fight?” Bucky snorts and goes to stand, his legs shaking slightly until Tony offers him a hand. “No thank you.”

“No one’s going to ask you to fight.” _I don’t want you to fight --_

“C’mon, Stevie. You can’t be that dumb.”

Bucky looks at him tiredly, and under his own exhaustion and terror and sadness, Steve prickles slightly -- Bucky’s known the difference in their natural intelligence has always been intimidating for Steve, and Bucky’s _never_ intimated that he thinks less of Steve for that difference.

Then again, Steve doesn’t really get to call bullshit on hurtful actions today.

“I won’t let them…” Steve’s cut off by the elevators opening.

Wanda and Pietro look paler than normal, hands clasped, and Steve frowns at them.

“Hey guys, it’s not the best--”

Wanda fixes him with _such_ a look, Steve feels the blood freeze in his veins, and the air in the lab shifts palpably -- no, that isn’t his imagination. Pietro sprints past him in less than a blink of an eye to help Bucky.

“Let’s go, boss.” He ducks under Bucky’s arm and scowls at Steve.

“Guys.”

“Don’t you _guys_ us.” Electricity seems to crackle off of Wanda, and she doesn’t settle until Pietro’s guided Bucky over to her, and she wraps an arm around his waist. “Do not try, Steven.”

It’s official - he thought that his heart had broken all the way when Bucky kicked him out of his recovery room, but now, with Wanda and Pietro looking at him like he’s a dangerous stranger, Steve understands what real rock bottom is.

“Thank you for taking care of him, Tony.” The emphasis Pietro puts on Tony’s name is tangible. “Steven.” He nods once in dismissal at Steve, and then the trio heads for the elevators.

“Don’t worry, we won’t go far,” Bucky snipes over his shoulder.

He sags well before the doors close behind them, and he doesn’t bother to hide the tears in his eyes from Tony, who eyes him reproachfully before sighing and nudging DUM-E with his elbow. The robot clumsily lifts a box of tissues from the work station and offers them to Steve.

“Pollen’s been a real bitch this spring,” Tony comments idly, already grabbing a wrench and fidgeting with a small contraption on the bench.

Steve takes the tissues from DUM-E and mutters a thanks to the robot, which tries to pat him awkwardly. It somehow helps, and Tony even half-smiles at the robot’s attempts to demonstrate kindness.

“So. How did you get roped into that whole,” he gestures with the wrench in his hand, “shitshow? Last I checked, you would willingly jump in front of a speeding train before Bucky Bear could get a paper cut.”

“Fury lied to me,” Steve explains wearily, leaning against a tall metal frame that has a half-abandoned project hanging from it. “And I didn’t trust my better judgment. It’s always been kinda … fuzzy, anyway, where Bucky’s concerned.”

“You don’t see how letting them strap him down--”

Steve full-body winces at the reminder. Tony’s kind enough to redirect.

“Don’t see why Fury needed to go after him like that. But, I guess it has something to do with this?” Tony waves the file that Steve had abandoned upstairs, at his post in the monitor room.

“How did you?” Steve squints for a second and sighs. “Pepper.”

She’d been the one to grip him by the arm and insist he wasn’t helping anyone by mourning outside Bucky’s room. Prison. Whatever you wanted to call it.

“Pepper.” Tony tosses it onto the workstation, spreads the files out in an array, and rubs a hand over his face. “JARVIS?”

[ _Translating now._ ]

Tony nods his head to the monitor nearest him, and Steve walks over wearily as the files begin to appear in English. Tony’s already cursing under his breath when Steve walks up, and Steve freezes when he reads the first page.

“ _Reconditioning_?”

“Guess we know what they were doing with that chair.” Tony flicks his wrist, and the next translated page appears above their heads.

For the second time that day, the urge to vomit becomes almost too much for Steve.

“Is that--”

“Yeah.” Tony glances over at him and then kicks a chair out. “Sit. There’s no way I can lift you without a suit, and Pepper said no suits in the house.”

“All the test subjects died,” Tony reads monotonously, as though Steve hasn’t already seen that from the reports they’re flicking through at a steady rate. Tony reads them all quickly, and Steve has no choice but to memorize them the second he sees them, a horrifying side effect of the serum.

Most days, that’s the thing he’d give back. Not the strength. Not the seeming immortality. Not the size. The memory.

There’s plenty Steve wants to forget. Plenty he isn’t allowed to.

“This is Red Room shit.” Tony lets out a rough breath and sits back. “That must be why they sent Black Widow in.”

“Nat didn’t say anything to me--” Steve begins, but Tony cuts him off with another one of his patented looks.

“Well, she wouldn’t, would she? She’s a Widow, Steve. First and foremost. She has her orders, and she follows them.”

“She’s my friend.”

“She’s my friend, too. Doesn’t stop her from being literally programmed to deal with...all this.” Tony’s eyes flicker up to the screen. “Shit. Don’t read that--”

Steve shoves Tony out of the way, gentler than he could, to study the last few pages closely.

“Trial 3.25-57-038 - Subject ready for compliance?”

“This might be why Fury was so cautious.” Tony’s pale under the blue light that washes over him from the monitor. “It looks like they were programming your boy for something. Something” -- pictures, files, blueprints appear on the screen -- “Not so good.”

“He’s not…” Steve trails off and shakes his head. Bucky’s not his boy -- might not be his anything anymore.

A memory calls to him: Bucky, in the facility, rifle trained on Steve with his eyes a million miles away, covered in blood, some his and some not, piles of bodies lining the hallway behind him. Unable to recognize him for thirty nerve-wracking seconds.

 _Had it already begun, then_?

No. Steve would have noticed - Bucky was just traumatized, and now he’s even more traumatized, and probably hates Steve --

Tony isn’t on the same page, and is still muttering to himself.

“They were trying to brainwash him, and for what?” Tony sits back in his chair and rubs his eyes tiredly. “Fuck. They really did a number on him; would have been worse if we hadn’t found him when we did.”

Steve has nothing left to do besides rest his head on the workstation and groan quietly.

“Uh. You okay there?”

He nods miserably in response, but even Tony isn’t buying it.

There’s a prodding at his shoulder; Tony’s picked the retractable metal tool up again and is patting him with it from five feet away.

“...There there.”

***

As the elevator arrives at his floor, JARVIS chimes in with something highly unexpected.

[ _Captain, Mr. Barnes is currently waiting for you in the living room_.]

That surprises him; Steve’s spent the better part of the morning moping around Manhattan, trying to figure out how he can convince Bucky to at least look at him again, let alone talk to him. Hope fills his chest unbearably, and he bounds off the elevator to his door.

He lets himself in, trying to contain his excitement and failing so that he fumbles with his keys, but the second the door opens, he bursts in with an unstoppable smile that is all too quickly stopped.

Bucky’s looking healthier than he has all week, his dark, wavy hair half-up in a bun, the rest framing his beautiful face; the late morning sun filters into the apartment and frames him with a nearly holy light. In his hands are a set of keys. At his feet is a suitcase.

“Bucky?”

“I’m going back to Brooklyn.” Bucky speaks steadily, but like it comes at a great cost. “Tony said it was a good idea for me to clear my head, so … I’m going.”

“No.” Steve shakes his head desperately, but all it does is make Bucky scowl.

“ _No_ ? You have no right to keep me here. You or SHIELD.” He directs that part over Steve’s shoulder, as though Fury’s standing at Steve’s back. In a fit of paranoia, Steve glances over his shoulder, and when he looks back, Bucky’s face is tight with grief. “If you try to keep me here, JARVIS is set to release all the documentation of my illegal imprisonment. Tony’s orders. You can’t override it. I’m an American citizen, I’ve committed no crime, you _can’t_ keep me--”

His voice borders on hysterical, and Steve raises his hands pleadingly.

“Babydoll, no one is saying -- I  wouldn’t keep you here if you didn’t want to be here, I just--”

“I’m going,” Bucky repeats stubbornly, not having any of it, and another part of Steve crumbles.

“Buck, I - I just got you back. Going off alone like that…”

“I’ll be under surveillance.” Bucky kicks the luggage at his side and stares out the window, jaw tight. “That part was non-negotiable, even for Tony. No need to worry about my safety, Captain.”

“Are we … are you done with me? With us?” Steve asks weakly, fighting the urge to curl up under the counter and hide from Bucky’s response. “You’re going to walk away?”

“You don’t get to accuse me of walking away when you... when _you_ were the one who stopped trusting me.” Bucky grabs his suitcase and shakes his head, eyes red, but no tears on his face. “I asked you to run away. Why didn’t you just say yes?”

 _I’m not used to doing things that are good for me, Buck, you know that --_ if this were a different conversation, he’d go for humor.

“I’m sorry,” is all he can say. He means it. He means it more than he’s ever meant anything, and Bucky’s expression slips for a second, and he looks every bit as cracked and bruised as Steve feels.

He walks past him though, and Steve has to lock his muscles to stop from reaching for him when they’re shoulder to shoulder. There’s no stopping the tears welling up in his eyes, but he can stop himself from falling to his knees and sobbing, begging, pleading for Bucky to stay.

He’d do it in a second if he thought it would work.

But Bucky wants to go, and Steve can’t manipulate him like that. He refuses to; even if he’d mean every word of it, even if he _would_ jump in front of a speeding train if it meant Bucky wouldn’t leave him, even if he would dive another plane into the Arctic, spend another century under ice for him -- Bucky wants to go. And he’s had enough choices taken from him.

“For what it’s worth,” Bucky pauses in the doorway that never did shut behind Steve. His voice is hoarse from unshed tears and something that’s probably a little closer to rage. “I still love you.”

“Then stay.” Steve’s resolve breaks; he pivots to look at Bucky with every ounce of love and begging and regret that he feels. “ _Stay,_ for me.” _For us._

“That’s not how this works,” is all he gets in response, and then the door is shut between them.

Steve doesn’t even have the strength to fall to his knees, just folds into himself and weeps in the foyer of what used to be his home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Will our boys reconcile soon? Will Draco ever stop delivering this angst? Find out next time on_ "It Always Finds a Way"!
> 
> Sorry for another pain train chapter --
> 
> The next chapter will be Bucky's POV as he settles back into his old life in Brooklyn. 
> 
> I wonder what could happen??
> 
>  
> 
> (Also, I **swear** fluff and smut are in the future for our boys when they reunite ...the only question.... is _when_ )


	4. Identity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky struggles with the fallout from his traumatizing treatment at the hands of SHIELD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some mild warnings, mainly for lingering anxiety, references to past death/car crash.

* * *

 

The transition back to normal life is, in a word, awful.

It’s not that everything reminds him of Steve; it’s that _everything_ reminds him of Steve, of things they did together, jokes they shared. Luckily, Bucky hasn’t spent much time in his apartment since February, so a lot of what happened between them - their first time having sex, the first time they said _I love you,_ sleeping with Steve’s arms wrapped around him, stopping every bad thing in the world from touching him -- didn’t happen here, in his one bedroom apartment in Brooklyn.

Still though: waking up alone the first night is awful. Sitting across from an empty chair while he drinks his coffee is awful. Re-organizing his shelves in his closet so he has something to do that isn’t moping is awful. Catching up on the emails from work from the last week is awful. Reaching out for someone who isn’t there anymore is awful.

He’s doing the crossword by himself the second morning, the pen shaking slightly in his hand, and out of nowhere he says, “Stevie, what was the main exhibit at the Stark Expo in ‘42?”

Then he remembers. And it’s awful.

The smallest noises make him jump, and he screams himself awake more than once. When he goes to the library on the third day, he can feel the SHIELD agents tailing him, the ‘security’ even Stark couldn’t convince Fury to let go of, and he runs before remembering that they aren’t technically the bad guys.

He ends up on top of a fifteen story building, not entirely sure how he scaled it, but crying his heart out because he’s so _fucking_ confused, and _why can’t the world make sense again?_

Fury shows up twenty minutes later, shaking his head with a sigh, and personally escorts Bucky to the library. It’s awful, and infantilizing, and he makes it his mission to never need SHIELD interference again.

Steve doesn’t call. It’s the worst, most awful part of all of it. He’d expected him to maybe at least text; some part of him hoped Steve would knock on the goddamn door, or write him a letter like Mr. Darcy, or come and _explain_ himself. But Steve doesn’t do any of that. They’d fought, for crying out loud, it wasn’t the apocalypse, or a civil war, it was just...Bucky needed space. He has space now, nothing but space, and he …

He told Steve he loved him when he left; Steve didn’t say it back, just asked him to stay. At the time, Bucky thought he heard the implied _please stay because I love you too much to let you go --_ but Steve had let him go. And the words went unsaid.

The phone doesn’t ring; his door doesn’t buzz. And it’s awful.

On June 13, he doesn’t even bother getting dressed, just mopes around his apartment in his footie pajamas, the ones that look like Totoro that he’d gotten as a gag gift in grad school and actually ridiculously loved, hating that whatever he does, he feels _cold_  -- and isn’t _that_ fucked up? Steve Rogers, supersoldier extraordinaire, runs nearly six degrees hotter than the average person.

Bucky, in this brave new supered world of his, runs four degrees colder. It’s bullshit. He hates being cold.

It’s eighty-five degrees outside by eleven a.m., and he’s fucking _cold._ Bucky cuts a bagel from the shop around the corner and mumbles to himself about _fuckin’ Hydra_ and _couldn’t give me a normal body temperature,_ when suddenly there’s a clatter at the fire escape outside.

Bucky stiffens and looks over, makes himself look over, but there’s no one there. It’s probably a pigeon, four stories up, making him antsy. So, he forces himself to return to cutting the bagel, and then slaps the cream cheese out on the counter.

He looks up when he hears the unmistakable sound of the window sliding open.

The knife is out of his hand before he can even think, cutting through the air with deadly accuracy, aimed right at the person climbing through his window.

That person catches it.

“What the _fuck,_ dude?”

Clint Barton pauses, one leg in the apartment, one still on the fire escape; he’s gripping the knife by the handle, having dodged just barely out of the way to catch it.

“What the fuck?” Bucky screams back, heart slamming in his chest.

“ _WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU THROW THIS AT ME_?” Clint shouts, still frozen on his perch, shaking the knife at him.

“ _WHY THE FUCK DID YOU SNEAK IN THROUGH MY WINDOW_?” Bucky shouts right back, stomping his foot and grabbing the brick of cream cheese, willing to use it as a weapon if necessary.

 _“WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU THROW A KNIFE AT ME_?”

Clint jumps all the way through with a huff, and Bucky really almost does throw the cream cheese.

“ _WHY IN THE EVER-LOVING FUCK DID YOU COME THROUGH THE FUCKING WINDOW?_ ”

“WHY ARE YOU SO - oh. Right. The stalking. Shit. Sorry.” Clint shrugs and holds out the knife apologetically, hilt first “Good aim, dude. This sucker almost hit me in the eye.”

Bucky clutches his chest and wheezes, half-irate, and half-hysterically amused. “What are you even doing here?”

“I brought ice cream?” Clint holds up a bag from the bodega on the street, and Bucky can see the blue and green of Ben & Jerry’s through the plastic.

“...Yeah, alright.”

Bucky shrugs and walks over with his bagel on a plate, still beyond worked up, but accepting that this really isn’t the weirdest shit that’s happened to him this month.

“If we’re gonna hang, do you want to order pizza?”

Bucky looks down at his bagel, already prepped and lovingly smeared with his favorite cream cheese and frowns. “Uhh…”

“I’m going to order a pizza.” The phone’s already dialed, and Clint puts it on speaker as he hands the bag of ice cream to Bucky. “Wasn’t sure what you liked, so I just grabbed a bunch of different --”

“ _Pizza Palace, this is Peter speaking._ ”

“Parker?” Clint frowns at the screen.

“ _...Who?_ ”

Bucky gives Clint a weird look over his shoulder while he heads to put the ice cream in the freezer.

“Never mind. Look, can we order three pizzas? Uhhh, one with mushrooms, one with pepperoni--” He squints at Bucky who shakes his head. “Never mind. Not pepperoni. Sausage…?”

“No meat on pizza,” Bucky mouths at him, and Clint nods.

“Okay, one cheese, one mushroom, and one … I don’t know? Like? With vegetables? You can do that?”

“ _A veggie pizza, sir?”_

“They make those? Huh. Wild.” Clint shakes his head and rests his elbow on the window frame, squinting down into the street. “So, three pizzas, no meat, to 1917 Park Avenue. It’s Unit 5B, but there’s no way you’re getting up the stairs, so either take the fire escape--”

“ _Excuse me, sir?_ ”

“Or just give it to Agent Allen. He’s got red hair, and a stupid beard that’s only half grown-in.” Clint looks up from the phone with a grin to Bucky. “God, he’ll hate that. Yeah, so, Agent Allen will pay.”

“ _Alright sir. It should be there in thirty minutes._ ”

“Perfect. Amazing. Spectacular.” Clint clicks the _end call_ button with a flourish, and sighs happily. “That’ll teach that fucker not to touch my bow.”

“I really can’t eat three pizzas,” Bucky says tentatively, off-kilter from how quickly his morning went off-track. He was supposed to be on the couch, eating his bagel, watching Netflix, waiting for his phone to ring; and instead, Hawkeye, legendary assassin and secret agent, is ordering pizza in the window he just broke into.

“Who said it’s for you?” Clint lifts up on his toes and then grins wildly. “Hey, Barnes, what’s your building’s policy on dogs?”

“That they’re...not allowed?”

“Huh?” Clint slides the window open more and snaps his fingers -- too late, Bucky can hear him approaching. “I didn’t hear that. Ohhh, good boy!”

Lucky jumps in the window, panting happily and runs over to Bucky, barking his head off.

“Lucky! Shhh!” Bucky kneels quickly and gives as many pats as he can to keep the mutt quiet. He gets smacked with his ropy tail about fifteen times while petting him, and he laughs despite himself. “Good boy.”

“At least one of the pizzas is for Lucky. He needs the calories, it’s not easy to climb a fire escape,” Clint reasons, sliding the window shut. “Throw me a Chunky Monkey while you’re over there. And no knife this time.”

***

They end up sprawled out on Bucky’s couch, a relic he pilfered from a thrift store when he moved into this place. Lucky collapses at Bucky’s side, and they don’t move for an entire afternoon, except when Clint emerges from a blanket cocoon to answer the door and accept the pizza from Agent Allen.

“You owe me thirty dollars, Barton,” the agent says, beet red, a vein standing out in his forehead.

“Oh, huh, yeah,” Clint pats his pockets with one hand, his hair sticking up at his cowlick. “Lemme just --” And Clint slams the door in Allen’s face.

When he starts to hammer at the door, Clint just trudges back to the couch and hollers, “Come back with a warrant!”

And the hammering stops.

“That’s right, motherfucker.” Clint sinks into the blanket pile once more and sighs happily, setting the pizzas on his lap. “Oh, this is _good._ ”

They watch The West Wing, which Clint has never seen before, with the subtitles on so Clint can follow along. Bucky eats two pieces of pizza in addition to his bagel, and half a container of Americone Dream; Clint eats a pizza and a half, and his entire pint.

Lucky, somehow, eats more slices of pizza than Bucky, and he watches the dog with deepend respect.

“Is that good for him?” He asks doubtfully, and Clint looks over from where Allison Janney is eviscerating a rude journalist.

“Huh? Lucky? He’s good.” Clint shakes his head. “You try telling him he can’t have pizza. Saddest fuckin’ eyes I’ve ever seen.”

As pleasant as the first four hours are, Bucky feels his anxiety pick up around three p.m., when Clint still hasn’t said anything about the elephant in the room. With a sigh, he pauses West Wing and taps Clint on the shoulder to get his attention.

When he turns around, Bucky presses his hands together to stop them from picking at the sleeves of his pajamas and lets out the breath he’s been holding.

“Did Steve send you here?”

Clint turns fully on the couch and sits criss-cross-applesauce. “No?”

“Really?” Bucky tries to see if Clint’s lying, but as far as he can tell the guy’s an open book; Clint looks back at him without blinking or faltering. “Steve didn’t send you here to check up on me?”

“Nope. He has no idea I’m here. He isn’t exactly…” Clint trails off and shakes his head. “Nah. I’m really not here for him, so I won’t say it.”

“Say what?” The anxiety spikes in his chest, and Clint sighs and rubs his neck.

“I’m _really_ \- I came here because I’m Team Bucky, right? I like being your friend. I missed you, and I didn’t feel like dicking around the Tower, so I came over. That’s why I’m here. I’m not here to make you feel bad about Steve--”

“Why would I feel bad about Steve?” Bucky lifts his eyebrows, and this time, Clint tries to look away. “Nope. Nuh-uh -- c’mon, you can tell me.”

“Fuck.” Clint groans and covers his eyes with his hands. “Nat would kill me if I--”

“ _Natasha_ sent you here?” Now he’s really anxious. He remembers the way she looked at him in the park, when her mask slipped for the tiniest second, how worried she’d been, about _Bucky._ Because they thought he was a monster, that he’d hurt himself or someone else.

He doesn’t like to think about it.

“No! And for the record, Nat and I aren’t exactly on good terms right now. I don’t care what Fury said, you’re our friend, and we shoulda checked things out with you before going all” - Clint waves his hands awkwardly - “Murder-spies on you.”

“Thanks? I appreciate it?” Bucky half-smiles though, and Clint smiles back; Bucky can see bruising around his eyes, a sign of a recent break, and the thought makes him feel oddly fond for the mess sitting on his couch.

“But it’s not worth fighting with your girlfriend over.” Bucky grabs his pint of ice cream; he swirls his spoon around the gooey half-liquid with a melancholy sigh. “There’s enough fighting going on right now.”

“One: I totally think it is worth fighting over, so don’t worry about it. And two: she’s not my girlfriend.”

“She’s not--” Bucky splutters awkwardly, thinking back to all the times he’s seen Nat draped over Clint’s back, or Clint kissing her fingers, or the two cuddled together during Avengers movie nights. It stabs him in the heart, the nostalgia of those particular memories, but he also continues to flail. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry, I just thought…”

_Straight people. Honestly._

“Nah, it’s totally fine. Nat’s my wife.” Clint takes a bite of a piece of pizza he’d left buried in his blanket cocoon, and a second later, he chokes. “Oh, _shit,_ don’t tell her I told you that, I think it’s supposed to be, like, a secret? We only just got married last year and --”

“I won’t tell,” Bucky laughs, shaking his head in wonder. “You didn’t invite anyone?”

“I’m still not sure it was entirely legal?” The piece of pizza is gone, and Clint licks his fingers with a slurping sound that shouldn’t be as endearing as it is. “Whatever. We got to shoot like, fifty robots afterwards, so it was a pretty good ceremony.”

“Uhh…” Bucky has infinite questions, but he realizes Clint, for all his affability, has actually _quite_ skillfully gotten them off topic. Interesting. “...So, why would I feel bad about Steve?”

Clint wilts guiltily, unable to escape now. “Ugh. You and Nat, I swear, impossible to distract…” Bucky leans forward and prods him in the shin, and Clint hoots grumpily. “ _Fine._ Just. Steve’s been. Better, I guess.”

“Better how?”

“Better as in--” Clint looks over his shoulder in a burst of paranoia before clearly remembering that his back is facing Bucky’s wall, and there’s no one looking at him, no one who’s five foot two with red hair and murder eyes. “He … hasn’t been shaving, I guess, or sleeping. I have a weird sleep schedule, and I see him at the gym at two a.m. And … at noon. He doesn’t really...leave. We went on a one day mission two days ago, and…”

Bucky’s chest tightens -- he’d had _no idea_ Steve had gone a mission, and a whole new series of questions erupts, like _had Steve been hurt,_ and _did they leave the country,_ and _no one thought to tell him_?

“And, let’s just say, he was...uh…. Up to his old tricks?”

“What does _that_ mean?” Bucky doesn’t mean to sound angry, but panic sharpens his voice.

Clint picks at the blanket before answering.

“Y’know. Unnecessary risks. Fought off fifty guys by himself. Got shot once or twice--”

“He _what_?” Bucky’s going to start crying and/or screaming in about five seconds.

“--Kept going. He’s good, totally healed up, but...Sam and I were worried because he did something he hasn’t done since….well, since he met you?” Clint toys with a bandage at the end of his fourth finger, not looking up to see Bucky staring at him in horror.

“Which would be _what,_ exactly?”

“...He used to...jump out of airplanes without a parachute?”

“He _what_ ?” Bucky jumps up from the couch and starts to pace, feeling like a caged tiger. _How could Steve be so -- reckless? So thoughtless? So fucking_ \-- “I’m gonna--”

“He’s gotta work that out on his own,” Clint says mildly from the couch, reaching over to scratch Lucky’s ears, the dog having been disturbed by Bucky’s outburst. “It’s not your responsibility if he isn’t handling your break up very well.”

“He isn’t -- hang on. Our _breakup_?” Bucky freezes, hands in the air from where he’d been gesticulating wildly and stares at Clint in surprise. “Our--”

“You broke up with him about nine days ago,” Clint reports, equally as surprised as Bucky, who sinks back onto the cushions. “Shit. Did you - did you forget?” He leans in, squinting, to study Bucky’s face, like it’ll expose some other head trauma they don’t know about, and Bucky swats at him until he sits upright again.

“I didn’t break up with him!” Bucky protests, and Clint lifts an unbelieving eyebrow. “I didn’t! I just told him I needed to clear my head, and that I couldn’t do it at the Tower, or near him because he’d hurt me. I even told him I loved him as I was leaving!” _And he didn’t say it back,_ he wants to add mulishly.

“Have you tried calling him since?” Clint grabs the pint of ice cream out of Bucky’s hands after he starts stabbing at the bottom of the carton crossly.

“No? It’s not my fucking turn to -- he has to call me!” Bucky scowls and threads his fingers through Lucky’s fur. “He’s the one who messed up, so he has to--”

“So, the last time you saw Steve, he heard that you didn’t want to be near him while you healed from him hurting you, and he hasn’t heard from you since?” Clint clarifies. “I mean. I get that you didn’t say the words 'I'm breaking up with you', but, uh...was there any room for misinterpretation? And is Steve the most emotionally intelligent person you’ve ever met?”

Bucky drags a hand over his face. “...Fuck.”

“Why did you need the space?” Clint asks. “I could probably guess, but...you love Steve. And he hurt you, awfully, yeah, I wouldn’t forgive him any time soon, but … what you two have, it’s like...fairytale shit.”

“I know that.” Bucky hangs his head and groans with his teeth gritted. “It’s complicated.”

“I’m good to talk.” Clint taps him on the shoulder, and he looks up. “But it’s easier to listen if I can see you, remember?”

“Yeah, sorry.” Bucky sucks in a breath; it feels like he’s run fifteen miles, and not with his new and improved Hydra-knock-off serum lungs. “I don’t … I just feel like a monster.”

“You shouldn’t,” Clint shakes his head. “Steve’s going through his own shit right now, and he’s handling it _badly,_ but that isn’t on you --”

“No.” Bucky stops Clint from barrelling on, and the other man quiets. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

It’s hard for him to keep his chin up when he admits this, but he knows Clint needs to see it to understand it better. “I’ve felt like a monster ever since Hydra. I killed so many people that day, and, and I know Steve has said he doesn’t care, but when he was so willing to believe that I was unstable, that I’d hurt him, or myself, or other people that day… it just confirmed it for me. I guess. That I’m a monster.”

“You aren’t a monster.” Clint surprises him by reaching out and grabbing his forearm; he squeezes gently until Bucky looks him in the eyes. “You’re a good person, dude.”

“I’m --” Bucky laughs bitterly and shakes his head. “I don’t feel like a person at all anymore.”

“Hey.” Clint grabs his other arm and leans in enough that Bucky can see how bright and clear his eye are. It hurts to look at, but he won’t let himself look away, even with tears burning in his own eyes. “No one - no one thinks you’re a monster. A lot of people fucked up that day, and you weren’t one of them.” When Bucky doesn’t say anything, Clint releases him and sits up again, rubbing his wrist thoughtfully. “Why don’t you think you’re a person?”

“I don’t know.” Bucky closes his eyes and sniffs, trying not to feel as pathetic as he must look. “I don’t really know who I am, I guess? I … I haven’t had a family in so long, and then...everything with Steve happened so fast, and now it’s all fucked up, and--”

He opens his eyes when something in his peripheral rattles. Clint’s twisted around, grabbing something from the side table, and it feels like a punch to the gut when Clint comes back with the framed photo of him and Becca on her twelfth birthday.

“Who is this?” Clint asks quietly.

“My sister.” Bucky wipes his nose inelegantly with the back of his hand before taking the frame from Clint and holding it carefully in his lap. “Rebecca. We all called her Becca. She was - she was twelve in this photo.”

“Twelve, huh?” Clint laughs. “I know this girl, Kate, met her when she was twelve. Huge pain in my ass. Still. Good kid.”

“Yeah, Becca was a pain in the ass too.” And it doesn’t feel like a betrayal to say, not when he _loved_ her so much. Still loves her. “She was obsessed with this band” - He points at the black t-shirt she’s wearing and laughs fondly - “My Chemical Romance. I gave her shit for it, but...it was still a really good band.”

“No, I know them.” Clint nods with a smile. “You look really happy in this photo.”

“I was,” Bucky agrees, the tears back without warning. “I was - I was really happy.” He doesn’t say anything for a few second, too busy trying not to cry in front of Clint, but the other man pulls out his phone from his too tight jeans and starts flipping through the photo roll.

“This is my brother Barney.” He shows him a picture of two kids with their arms slung around each other, both of them in their early teens. The taller boy looks a little on the mean side, and the smaller one, clearly Clint, based on the hearing aids, is pushing at him while laughing. “He was a huge pain in my ass, and not really in a good way, but it doesn’t stop me from missing him like crazy.”

“Yeah.” Bucky feels his lower lip quivering, and he tries not to look down at the photo because if he does, it’ll all be over in terms of self control. “I miss her every day.”

“So you’re a brother,” Clint comments off-handedly, clicking his phone off and slipping it into his pocket. “That’s a very human thing to be. What else are you?”

“I don’t know.” Bucky folds in on himself, wrapping his arms around his knees and pulling them to his chest. He can’t say the words _I’m not a brother anymore,_ because isn’t he still a brother, even if she’s gone?

“Start small, if you have to. What’s your name, when were you born. Y’know. The basic shit.”

“My name is James Buchanan Barnes, and I was born on March 10, 1990,” Bucky feels a little silly, but he obliges. “My sister couldn’t say my full name, so it got shortened to Bucky, unless Ma was mad at me. I was born a few blocks over from this apartment, but after my - my family died in a car crash, my grandparents moved me out to Indiana.”

“Indiana?” Clint whistles. “I spent some time there when I was with the circus.”

“The _circus_?” Bucky asks incredulously, and Clint waves a hand.

“Nuh-uh, this isn’t about my story. It’s about yours.”

“Fine. My uh - my grandfather had been a sniper in the Army during World War II. He taught me how to shoot when I was a kid, and after the accident, it was one of the first things I showed any sort of interest in again. We mostly shot at targets, I never...I never liked hunting. Neither did Zayde.”

“His name?”

“No, it’s Yiddish for grandfather,” Bucky smiles fondly, thinking of his grandfather’s broad smile and cracked hands, the way his collar always smelled like tobacco when he’d hugged him. “I called my grandmother Bubbe. They both passed when I was in undergrad, studying to be a teacher.”

“What made you want to be a teacher?”

He can see Clint’s game, of course, but he finds that it’s helping him in a weird way. Clint isn’t a therapist; he isn’t Steve; he isn’t poking and prodding, but showing a genuine interest. So, he keeps going.

“I never had any doubts about it.” Bucky smiles at the thought of his third grade teacher patting him on the back and complimenting him for helping the other students finish their worksheets after he’d finished early. Mrs. Marconi is still teaching, less than half a mile from here. “I always liked the idea of it, and after everything that happened, I… I know it’s not a glamorous job, but I like it.”

Clint doesn’t ask anything further, and the silence sits for a second, giving Bucky time to think, think about what he wants to say, thinking about if he wants to continue. Oddly, he finds that he does.

“It’s stupid, but...y’know The Catcher in the Rye?”

“Is that a movie?” Clint makes a face, and Bucky shakes his head.

“Book."

“Shit, I sort of dropped out of school in the seventh grade. So, uh, what’s it got to do with teaching?”

“So, it’s this really sad book. I read it probably fifteen times when I was a teenager because it’s a very teenager from New York thing to read. And it’s about this kid, who’s really been through the wringer. Little brother died, family thinks he’s mentally ill, no one wants to give him the time of day...and all he wants to be is the catcher in the rye fields, which is, well -- these little kids go running around in the field to play, only they can’t see where the fields end in a cliff. There has to be someone there who’s responsible for catching the little kids before they fall over the edge.”

He looks up to see if Clint is still following, and Clint nods encouragingly.

“So, Holden, the main character, he thinks, _I just want to stand at the edge of a cliff and make sure no kid ever gets hurt._ Because he knows what it’s like to be hurt. Holden isn’t old by any means. He’s still a kid himself. But, he knows that a lot of pain and a lot of suffering is waiting for kids when they fall over the cliff and stumble through the really shitty parts of life that make you an adult. And he just...he wants to stand there and help them. He doesn’t realize that it’s the innocence in his life, mainly his baby sister, who’s stopping _him_ from falling over the edge, that they’re the ones saving him, but, he wants to spend his life making sure no one ever gets hurt the way he was hurt.

“And...I don’t know. I wanted that. Still want that. I want to stand between my students and that stupid cliff. Because I’ve been knocked down more times than I can count, and spat on, and broken, and...I don’t want anyone else to ever feel like I did.” Bucky shakes his head and laughs shakily. “I don’t think I’ve ever said that out loud.”

“Well, shit.” Clint shakes his head wonderingly and sits back to study the ceiling. “I don’t know how you can say all that and still think you’re a monster, dude.”

“I don’t know if all that makes me a good person--”

“Are you kiddin’ me?” Clint smiles at him kindly. “Look, I’m not a therapist, and I’m not great with emotions either, but...as someone who’s seen and done some really fucked up things in his life, lemme just say: You’re a good person.”

Bucky writhes with the need to disagree, but Clint holds a hand up to stop him.

“I know people are always going on and on about how loving yourself is the most important step to healing, blah blah blah, but fuck it. It sucks to be at the bottom and not have someone there letting you know that your thoughts are being dumb. Anything that’s telling you, you aren’t a good person? It’s bullshit. It is. You’re a good person, and you deserve good things, and I’ll slap the fuck out of anyone who says otherwise.”

“Thanks, Clint.” Bucky feels odd, like he’s being tugged in two different directions at once. “This was...weirdly nice.”

“Weirdly nice is what I’m good at.” Clint grabs the last pizza box and chucks it up onto the sofa. “Now, let’s talk about what we’re doing tomorrow, because my ass cannot sit like this for two days in a row. It’s unsustainable.”

***

“You ready for this, dude?” Clint eyes the structure in front of them dubiously, and Bucky nods, fiddling with the sleeve of his denim jacket. Clint had given him a weird look, but Bucky mumbled, _I’m cold, asshole,_ so Clint had let it go pretty quickly.

“Yeah.” He nods and clears his throat nervously. “Thanks for walking with me.”

“I’ll be right out here if anything goes poorly.” Clint loops Lucky’s leash to a nearby bench and plops down, pulling out a small tablet. “Gotta catch up on my shows anyway.”

Bucky’s still smiling when he pushes into the coffeeshop, which means he doesn’t look nearly as scared shitless as he feels. He gives his order to the barista at the counter and looks around the shop before he spot who he’s come here to see.

He fidgets with the iced coffee he’s handed twenty seconds later and walks to the corner of the shop, trying to project a modicum of confidence that he doesn’t feel, and as he walks up, he can hear the conversation distinctly:

“I’m just saying, Elisa, that I don’t think you’ve got it right. My boy Locke would _never_ actually mean--

“Your boy Locke? Your _boy_? I don’t know how ya boy would feel being called your--”

“Hey, guys.”

Bucky holds a hand up, with a terrifed wave, and smiles down at the group of six sitting in front of him.

He’s been getting the invites every week; his school’s History Club, which he’d technically been the sponsor for before the whole...kidnapping and disappearance thing. They meet every Sunday in this spot, and so far this summer, he hasn’t shown up.

But now, Elisa, Shana, Christophe, Tom, Jayden, and Olivia stare up at him like they’ve seen a ghost, and he’s almost regretting walking over here --

Until Tom Myers -- hellraiser Tom Myers, who once got thrown out of the National Portrait Gallery for ‘interacting with the art’ a little too much -- jumps out of his seat and throws his arms around Bucky unexpectedly. A second later, Bucky realizes he’s crying into his shirt.

“Oh.” He pats Tom awkwardly on the back, trying to fight his own, sudden, urge to cry. “H-hey, Tom.”

“Mr. Barnes!” Shana and Elisa descend on him as well, and the next thing he knows, he’s being hugged by six kids, all of whom are clamoring for his attention.

“ _We thought you were dead!”_

_“They wouldn’t tell us anything--”_

_“--Were you actually kidnapped?”_

_“How’s Captain Rogers?”_

_“You’re so skinny, Mr. Barnes!”_

_“We thought you were dead!”_

Tom in particular seems stuck on that last thought, and even when they let go of him as though by consensus, he keeps reaching out to poke him in the arm.

“I’m not dead,” Bucky jerks his arm out of the way before Tom can poke it again. “Seriously, I’m fine, and I’m coming back in the fall--”

“He’s coming back in the fall!” Elisa screeches, shaking Shana bodily. “He’s coming back!”

“I’m standing right here! We all heard him!” Shana scolds her. “Let the man sit, girl, honestly.”

They settle around the table, and Elisa types something furiously on her phone; Bucky listens to them chat about the end of their school year, and how their AP exam went. They’d told him over Skype, of course, but it’s better to actually talk to them, to see the look of excitement in their faces as they talk about their final projects and the symposium at school.

Ten minutes later, Bucky realizes why Elisa had been so buried in her phone.

At least a dozen kids show up, in addition to the History Club’s regular members, all of them there to say hi to him, and after buying an obligatory drink, they all settle around him in a circle and stare at him with huge eyes.

“Are you allowed to talk about it?” Tom asks, running a finger along the rim of his coffee cup. “Or is it top secret?”

“Talk about what?” Bucky says jokingly, and all the kids keep staring at him, so he sighs. “I can’t talk about it. I uh -- I didn’t mean to interrupt your meeting either, guys, I’m sorry...I just...what were you supposed to be talking about?”

“The thinkers behind the Revolutionary War,” Olivia says. “But it’s more interesting to talk to you, Mr. Barnes.”

“What would Thomas Jefferson say about that?” Bucky shakes his head and shuffles through the papers they have in the middle of the circle. “Alright, let’s talk about Paine, then.”

He passes out copies of “The American Crisis,” because as nice as it is to see that his kids missed him, this wasn’t supposed to be about him. Most of the kids have to share the copies, two or three grouped around a single piece of paper, and he grins at all of them.

“Surprise, this was all a trick to get you to learn something over summer break!”

“We don’t care,” Shana says confidently. “We missed you, Mr. Barnes.”

The entire group mutters or shouts in agreement, and Bucky looks over his shoulder apologetically at the barista before waving his hand at them to settle down, pretending that he isn’t three inches away from crying his guts out in the middle of this coffee shop.

“Alright, so how many of you have read this?”

About half of them raise their hands.

“That’s weird, considering I assigned it in November.” He smirks at Tom’s guilty expression and shakes his head. “So, should we read it to ourselves, or should I read it?”

“You read it!” They chorus eagerly, leaning in to listen to him better when he shakes out his paper.

“Okay. ‘The American Crisis,' December 19, 1776.” He looks up and sees the students all staring at him, wide-eyed and eager and here in the middle of the goddamn summer for a teacher who’d disappeared on them without explanation. Something stronger than the serum floods through him, then, and Bucky takes a deep breath and starts to read.

“These are the times that try men's souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands by it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph…”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Peeks out from shrubbery]: is it safe to come out yet?
> 
>  
> 
> I think the next chapter -- "Independence" -- might make some people happy?!?!?!?


	5. Independence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve deals with his own issues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS:
> 
> This chapter was draining for me to write, so I imagine it will be draining to read.
> 
>  
> 
> Steve goes to a lot of therapy; they talk about his suicidal tendencies/self-hatred/self-destruction/depression  
> PTSD is mentioned, and references are made to body modification/experimentation and their effect on Steve’s psyche.
> 
>  
> 
> Alright. Let’s go.

“What the  _ hell  _ was that?” 

Steve turns to find Sam storming towards him, and he winces, leaning away from the little droid, AID-V,  that Tony assigned to pull shards of bullet out of his side. 

“I believe they were some kind of robot, Sam--”

“Ha. Ha.” Sam glowers at him, arms crossed in front of his chest, goggles still firmly in place. “Man, you’re lucky I like you, or I’d dangle you out the back of this jet the entire way home. What the hell?”

“I didn’t see ‘em coming,” Steve says, sagging tiredly and shaking his head. It’s the truth. He’d been distracted, just not by the battle. “They snuck up on me, I didn’t turn in time, that’s all. I’m sorry to scare you.”

AID-V drops a shard of bullet into a glass, blood staining it tellingly.

“You think this scares me?” Sam gestures at the pieces of metal that have been pulled from Steve’s body so far. “This? Hell no. I can deal with bullet holes. Picked up more than a few of them in my time, and they were honorably earned -- tell me, Steve, how did this fight start?”

“When Doctor Doom decided that--”

“No. I mean  _ how did you arrive to this fight _ ?”

Huh. Shit. Steve figured Sam had already been airborne after the quinjet ramp lowered.

“I didn’t think you noticed that,’ he mutters, looking down.

“You didn’t think I’d  _ notice  _ that my best friend jumped off the back of a fucking plane when it was still five hundred feet off the ground?”

“The fight had started,” Steve protests. “There were civilians!”

“That me, War Machine, and Iron Man could have helped just fine before you and the rest of the team landed. I shouldn’t have to be worried about scraping you off the ground when I’m in the middle of a dogfight, Steve! Man - you’re lucky Wanda got pulled off this mission last second: what if she had seen you?”

“I didn’t think--”

“You didn’t think, that’s for damn sure. Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“No!” Steve answers hotly, “It’s not like that--”

“Then what is it like, Steve? Because I’ve been going round and round in my head trying to figure out why you keep taking risks that aren’t necessary when you haven’t dedicated yourself to pulling that shit since Insight, and I can’t figure it out. You’re acting like someone with a death wish!”

“I don’t have --” Steve shakes his head, unable to vocalize  _ I just want to be useful  _ in a way that totally doesn’t conflict with all the therapy talk that’s been drilled into him, in a way that Sam can’t dismiss within three seconds of hearing with his own brand of therapy talk.

Sam sighs heavily. “I’m going to ask this one time, and one time only. Think before you answer, and give me a real answer.” Steve nods, waiting for the question. “...Is this about Bucky?”

AID-V pulls the largest piece out yet, scraping against the entry wound on the way, and that hurts a thousand times less than hearing Bucky’s name.

The sound of the bullet piece hitting glass echoes in the silent Med Bay, and Steve studiously avoids looking Sam in the eye for thirty seconds; it isn’t until AID-V has trundled off to find Tony, clutching its prize of shattered bullets, that Steve finds the ability to answer.

“No.”

It sounds weak, even to him, and he can sense disapproval roiling off Sam in waves. So, he corrects.

“It’s not  _ completely  _ \-- it’s … it’s a whole bunch of …” Steve shakes his head and feels his face crumpling. 

“A whole bunch of what?” Sam’s voice is softer now, and when he looks up, the kindness written in his friend’s face is enough to break him. Steve shakes his head, lips pressed together, trying to think of how to say it. 

“I can’t,” - He waves at his chest, praying that he can convey the hollow, throbbing pain there - “I don’t know how to -- I’m scared.” Steve hangs his head. “I’m scared, Sam.”

“I’m scared too.” Sam takes a seat next to him on the exam bench and leans into his side for a second. “Hell, all of us are scared, Steve. But what are you scared of?”

_ Not being enough - never seeing Bucky again - the fact that he really was my everything - how I’d finally felt  _ found  _ again when I was with him, and how I didn’t notice that I’d left nothing else inside of me to make room to love him, and when he left, there was nothing left to lose  _ \--

“I need help,” he says instead, taking a shaky breath. “I need help, don’t I?”

“Yeah.” Sam wraps a strong arm around his shoulder and squeezes. “But are you ready to want that help?”

Steve takes another breath, letting it wrack through his lungs until he can steady himself somewhat. He nods.

“Good man.” Sam releases him with a clap to the shoulder. “I think I know just the person.”

***

Steve walks into an unassuming office three days later, on June 14. It’s been ten days since Bucky left him, he’s been in three horrific knock-down fights since then, almost died more than once, and he’d sort of shrugged and blinked through each experience.

Yeah. It’s probably time to talk to someone. 

He likes the office, almost automatically. It’s small, and on top of a cafe, so it smells like coffee and old pastries; a row of succulents line the window, where light’s streaming in from the alleyway behind the office. While Dr. Eva’s office had been sterile, modern, and stream-lined, this one makes no effort to hide just how personally and deeply the person who owns it connects with her patients. 

There are framed pictures of men in dress blues with their arms around a diminutive woman with curly black hair and a teasing smile; children’s art with scrawled messages also have been deemed frame worthy; and little knickknacks litter every possible shelf.

A red and white shaggy dog in the corner lifts its head and sniffs in Steve’s direction, and the woman behind the desk stands about five seconds after he walks in, the woman from the pictures. 

“Steve Rogers.” She holds a small hand out to him, and he takes it, pleasantly surprised by the hearty grip. 

“Wendy Thompson?”

“That’s me. Just Wendy, though.” 

She gestures at two seats under a large potted plant, and he sinks into the larger one after eyeing the small one doubtfully, not wanting to take the nicer chair if she wanted it, but also not wanting to reduce the therapist’s furniture to matchsticks during his first visit. 

Wendy sits across from him, and after studying his face for two seconds, gives him that teasing smile that’s in all of the photos. “I actually like this chair better.” Steve releases his breath in a huff of a laugh and ducks his head. “You passed the test.”

“Test?” 

“Kidding.” Wendy draws her feet up underneath her and grabs a clipboard. “Maybe. Do you care if I take notes?’

“Yeah - do you care if I set this up?” He pulls a small device out of his pocket -- it should jam all frequencies coming in and out of the office, Stark-designed, Pepper-approved, for privacy. SHIELD won’t have access to these sessions; Steve was adamant about it, after finding out they’d run a profile on his willingness to go “collect” Bucky for them.

It’s an unpleasant thought, and he winces while waiting for Wendy to answer. 

“Go right ahead.” She waves a hand before grabbing a pen and clicking it on. “Sam mentioned you wanted complete privacy.”

“Thanks.” Steve sets it up and taps it on, the machine waking with almost no discernible sound. He doubts Wendy could hear it all. “I’ve … had some not so great experiences recently.”

“Well, I’m glad you scheduled an appointment. I figured today we’d just talk about ourselves, get to know each other, and schedule a follow-up for later this week.”

“Oh.” Steve nods and settles into his chair, glad she didn’t immediately ask him about those  _ not so great experiences.  _

He’s also grateful that she agreed to meet with him twice a week; he has a feeling it isn’t cheap, but he just sort of signed the paperwork blindly, knowing that the ridiculous heap of money he made in back-pay could go to a hell of a worse place.

“So. Me first or you first?”

“You first,” Steve shifts in his seat slightly, wincing at how his knee creaks; he’d run a little too hard this morning and almost slipped on the treadmill. He has a feeling he did some damage to a tendon, but it should be fully healed by the afternoon. 

“Alright. So, I graduated from Spelman about twenty years ago, did an internship with the Air Force, and then did my grad work at Columbia. I’ve worked with your friend Sam at the VA, and I specialize in combat-related PTSD with comorbid anxiety, depression, and body dysmorphia.”

“Body dysmorphia?” Steve frowns at the unfamiliar word.

“It’s a disorder characterized by a persistent and intrusive preoccupation with one’s appearance.” Wendy smiles at him kindly. “I work with a lot of veterans who’ve had limbs amputated, or who have experienced a trauma that leaves them with scarring.”

“Oh.” Steve nods and cracks his knuckles subconsciously. “So it’s only for physical issues--”

“Not at all.” Wendy re-crosses her legs and settles the clipboard against her lap. “It’s a mental issue, mainly. Feeling like your body isn’t your own, or it’s causing you some kind of stress to exist in a body you feel no connection to. It’s a very debilitating disorder, but, with the right combination of therapy and medication, it can be managed effectively.”

Steve’s chest tightens painfully. He wasn’t aware there was a word for…

He dodges, too uncomfortable to think about it right now.

“Medication, huh?” Steve chews on his lip. “Bruce -- sorry, Dr. Banner - he tried to make me a version of Lexapro that I could use for my … panic attacks. I don’t really get them that often anymore” -  _ liar, liar, liar  _ \- “But with the serum, I uh, burned right through it. If he tried to adjust the dose though, it just zonked me out for an hour. So. Maybe no medication.”

“That’s fine too.” Wendy looks at him expectantly, and Steve clears his throat, eyeing the clock, wondering if the next forty-four minutes are going to drag by like they usually do in therapy.

“I was born in Prospect Park, Brooklyn, in 1918...”

***

“What happened to your face?” Wendy asks bluntly at their third meeting, a week later. 

They’d gotten into Peggy at the last appointment, and Steve had almost cancelled today, as he’s still feeling raw from it. He misses Margaret Carter more than he’s ever been able to admit, and he’d spent over two minutes with his jaw locked, unable to answer, at least out loud, Wendy’s question of  _ What do you miss most about her?  _

He hadn’t known how to phrase “ _ The future we never had _ .”

Wendy’s opening question today is much easier to answer; Steve winces as he prods at the bruising on his face. “Took a bad hit.”

“Looks painful,” Wendy notes, settling in to her chair. The dog in the corner lifts his head and cocks it slightly, and she smiles at him but frowns at Steve.

“It’ll heal. Won’t even scar.” He waves a hand dismissively, his face stinging even as he ducks the hidden question in her words.

Wendy taps her pen against the clipboard with a thoughtful frown. “Things don’t have to leave a scar you can see to be hurtful, Steve.”

He closes his eyes and laughs bitterly, his chest collapsing at how familiar those words are.

“Can I ask what the joke is?”

“It’s just.” Steve shakes his head and looks up at Wendy apologetically. “My … um, someone I love very much told me something exactly like that earlier this year.”

She narrows her eyes, and quirks her mouth up slightly. “This person you love very much. Do you want to talk about them?”

“Not right now,” Steve whispers. “Please.”

“Alright.” Wendy nods and makes a small note on the clipboard, no doubt  _ find out who that person is ASAP.  _ “But can we talk about why you’ve heard that sentiment twice now?”

“Sure.” Steve unfurls his fingers from where he’s been gripping the sides of the couch, glad to not be talking about Bucky, who he  _ knows  _ texted him this morning, because JARVIS told him he had. 

Steve turned his phone off seventeen days ago and hasn’t turned it back on. Even if he did turn it back on to see what Bucky had sent him, that means SHIELD would see their conversation, hear it, use it against them in an attempt to drag Bucky back and --

He can’t do that.

“Should I be blunt, or should I ask politely?”

“I’m okay with blunt.” Steve smiles and lifts his shoulders. “I’m pretty blunt.”

“I’ve noticed.” Wendy looks at him for a long moment before asking. “Do you care what happens to your body?”

“I--” Steve’s caught off-guard entirely; he’s been asked if he cares about what happens to  _ him,  _ but it’s never been phrased quite like this. This one’s harder to dodge. “My body?”

“You talk about it like it’s a separate entity, and I’m not sure you’ve noticed. Everything you say about it - even about the positive aspects of it like the healing and the strength - you say it like you’re grumbling about something or someone you don’t like very much. So. Do you care about what happens to it?”

He wants to retract his previous statement and say  _ sure, they can talk about Bucky  _ because  _ that’s  _ a wound he knows pretty well. This makes his chest seize up painfully as he searches for the right thing to say. 

“I guess not.”

“You guess not?” Wendy nods and goes to write something, and Steve clears his throat, not wanting her to think he’s waffling on this, seized by a sudden and inexplicable desire to just lay it out in front of him.

“No. I don’t ...it isn’t mine.”

“It’s not yours?” 

“ It’s never been mine,” Steve addresses his knees, unable to look at Wendy. He eventually trains his eyes on the dog in the corner, the one who has yet to move when he’s in here, who gazes steadily back at him. “ _ It  _ \- It’s a science experiment I borrowed from a man who died before he could take it back.”

“Would you want him to?”

“Absolutely.” He laughs, angrily. “It sounds selfish doesn’t it? That I want to give it back? People have spent the better part of a century trying to repeat it, killing themselves or others in the process. My friend tried to replicate it, and it turned him into an actual monster. Hydra put their own version of it into the body of the man I love, and it almost destroyed him. They’re all so desperate to replicate it, and it for what?”

“Because they must think it’s a solution to their problems.” Wendy doesn’t write anything, at least, he can’t hear her pen. He can feel her looking at him, and he doesn’t look away from the dog. “Is it fair to assume that’s why you signed up for the experiment? Because last week, when we met, you said you agreed to it because it was the only way you could fight, and you wanted to fight.”

He nods and then shakes his head. “I - I just wanted to defend my country, and I couldn’t do that when I was … if … the shitty thing is, when I was little, I was sick all the time, ‘yknow? And after I died, or went into the ice, or whatever, Howard Stark did some digging, and in the 80s, they realized what was actually wrong with my old body. An immune deficiency. Six months of intense treatment, and then a handful of pills a day, and I wouldn’t be  _ sick  _ all the time, but I’d have my body back.”

“The body you had before the serum?” Wendy’s noticed his use of  _ my,  _ then. Steve hadn’t even noticed it himself until it slipped out.

“Yeah. Yeah, I … I wasn’t strong, and I wasn’t fast or healthy or whatever, and I was in pain. Every day of my life, I was in pain. But it was  _ my  _ pain. And Erskine put me in that machine, and I came out the other side looking like this” - he gestures to his torso with a scowl - “And everyone’s congratulating me like I’d won the lottery, like, like the  _ worst  _ of it was over. But that pain I’d been carrying around I…”

“You didn’t know what to do when it was gone.”

“It was so fast,” Steve says weakly, hanging his head. “Just a few minutes, and I … I turn into this… this stranger. My own mother wouldn’t recognize me from down the street, and I  _ hate  _ it.”

“It was your connection to that part of your life,” Wendy reasons. “And you lost it in an instant. It’s understandable that you’d hate that sudden transition.”

“No.” Steve realizes tears are stinging at the back of his eyes, but nothing’s falling. He grits his teeth before continuing. “I hate this - my - body. I  _ hate  _ it. I hate what they make it do.”

“Who’s they?” Wendy leans forward, looking truly concerned, and Steve takes a shaky breath, but doesn’t answer. “You don’t have to tell me, but remember, everything said between us is entirely confidential. I shred the notes after I’m done looking at them, and that’s within an hour of you leaving. Your name isn’t attached to them at all. You can say anything in this space, Steve.”

“SHIELD.” Steve looks out the window and wishes he could curl into a ball but he  _ can’t,  _ and isn’t what all this is about? “They own this body. I - I hate the shit I do sometimes. The government can get SHIELD to send us anywhere, and I’ve fought battles I don’t agree with, against people whose governments deemed them terrorists, people who just wanted independence or freedom or a chance at a better life. Some of the fights, I’d agree to without thinkin’ about it, but most of them...I don’t know why I’m…” He shakes his head. 

“I can kill someone with my hands if I don’t think about it. Y’know? I...I’ve killed people with the shield when I meant to just knock ‘em over. My first battle back in ‘44, I punched a soldier, a German, who wasn’t any older than B-- who was practically still a kid. He died. Chest caved in.

“I don’t belong to myself, and I don’t belong to this body,” he lifts a hand uselessly and lets it drop. “And I hate it.”

***

They get to the heart of the problem, and then they get to Steve’s heart, two sessions later in late June.

He feels like a wound that’s been ripped open, one the serum isn’t knotting together, when he sits on Wendy’s extra chair and spills his guts out about Bucky, without giving away too many state secrets that might actually get him or Bucky in trouble.

“If I’m not strong,” he says, reaching the end of a rant about  _ what he’s good for,  _ and  _ what can he possibly offer the love of his life when his own life is such a pile of shit,  _ “I have nothing to give him.”

“That’s not true.”

“Pardon?” Steve looks up from his fingers, which are knotted together in his lap. 

“It’s not true. You’re more than your body, Steve.”

“I know that, it’s just…” His jaw clicks when he thinks. “He’s so much  _ more  _ than me, I guess. He’s smart. And beautiful. And kind, and talented, and everyone likes him. I have no doubt in my mind over half the people I meet wouldn’t give me the time of the day if I didn’t look like this. I was a piece of work when I was a runt, and the serum didn’t fix that at all. Just made me easier on the eyes.” He picks at a frayed thread on the couch with a scowl. “Bucky isn’t like that. And if I can’t be strong for him, if I keep failing him … I’m no good for him.”

“If Bucky was here, what would he say to you?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Steve mutters. “He left me about a month ago.”

“He left you,” Wendy repeats for clarification. “Because … of whatever you did that you think means you ‘failed him’?”

“I fucked up,” Steve hastens to explain. “This isn’t … my self-hatred talking, or whatever. This is real. This is absolutely real; I betrayed his trust, and he’s been through more than anyone I’ve ever met, and he  _ trusted  _ me, and I betrayed him. Totally. Irreparably. And he left me.”

“What have you said to him since he left?”

“Nothing.” Steve shifts guiltily, and Wendy gives him A Look that looks more like Sarah Rogers and less like a certified mental health specialist.

“ _ Nothing _ ? He hasn’t reached out to you, you haven’t reached out to him?”

“I--” Steve buries his face in his hands. “I know he called me, a few times. Texted, too.”

“And you’ve been too busy self-punishing to respond to them?’

“Or read them,” Steve admits. “But!” He adds at her very apparent scowl “I’ve written letters.”

“Letters are good,” Wendy says encouragingly. “Maybe he called you because he got them?”

“About that.” Steve rubs the back of his neck with a grimace. “I haven’t  _ sent  _ the letters.”

“Steven.”

He looks away, pretending not to hear the disappointment in her voice.

“Steven. Whatever …  _ changes  _ Bucky went through recently that made you think he didn’t … need you or your protection anymore … did they make him a mind-reader?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Steven.”

“...Not to my knowledge.”

Wendy sighs, long and drawn-out. “Okay. You have homework.”

“Homework?” Steve squawks indignantly, more indignantly than probably even Bucky’s kids when the same thing is said to them.

“Send a letter. Or all of them. Pick the best one, the least embarrassing one, whatever. Send Bucky a letter, and maybe check your texts. Honestly.”

He grins sheepishly, and Wendy’s lips twitch. Just slightly.

Still a win.

***

Steve’s lucky enough to get assigned to a mission on the third of July, and it keeps him busy all the way until late afternoon on the Fourth. The only acknowledgement he gets of his birthday is from JARVIS, who politely wishes him well when he wakes up, but the rest of the team leaves him alone on that front, after he’d mentioned to Sam a few days ago that he felt very far away from celebration.

He’d sent Bucky the letter, as prescribed by Wendy, three days ago, and he has yet to hear anything from him. He’d also turned his phone on, read the few texts he had waiting, and listened to the single voicemail that had been waiting from him from June 21st.

“ _ Hey. I guess I just wanted to see if you were okay. Clint mentioned something a while back -- never mind. Give me a call when you get a chance. Even if you’re mad at me. I think there’s a lot we should talk about. I...I miss you.” _

Bucky’s texts were even less forthcoming, just a  _ Hey, are you free to talk?  _ from June 13th, and a  _ I saw my kids today  _ from June 14th.

Steve might have sat in his shower and cried after realizing how much time he’d wasted the last month, how much he should have been fighting for Bucky, but he gave himself fifteen minutes before he stood up, cleaned himself up, and went off to send the pile of letters he’d been writing.

They were mostly a meandering affair, talking about his day, or speculating on Bucky’s day; some of them waxed poetical about Bucky’s eyes or the way he made Steve’s heart pound. All of them were love letters. Aggressively so. 

He doesn’t regret sending them; but, he’s also terrified at the lack of response, and too afraid to pick up the damn phone and call. 

When the plane lands, returning him from his fortuitous mission, and after his mandatory debrief with Fury, Tony, and Hill, his phone vibrates with a text from Clint. He doesn’t check it until he’s out of the shower and in civilian clothes.

[Clint, 6:35 p.m.]:  _ Hey dude, there’s a fireworks-free event for veterans at a park in Brooklyn today. I totally get it if you can’t make it out, but it starts at eight? They’re a cool group of guys, I swear. No one’s going to mention...y’know. Any of it. _

[Clint, 6:36 p.m.]:  _ Let me know if you’re gonna make it  _

The last text has an incomprehensible string of emojis, and Steve smiles fondly at them despite the grief that lingers in his chest. He hesitates before typing the response, but he does, with no doubt to his answer.

[Steve, 7:10 p.m.]:  _ I’d love to go. I’ll be there.  _

***

It’s a pretty little park, one he’s run through a few times on his runs when he’s staying the night in Brooklyn. 

It’s also a few blocks over from Bucky’s place, and Steve’s fingers itch with the urge to text him and see if maybe he’d be up for a visit today. Or soon. Steve could do soon, if Bucky can’t do today.

Steve isn’t holding anything, which feels weird, but Clint has insisted that he didn’t need to bring anything besides himself. He looks down at his phone to turn on the path marked on the strange little map Clint has sent, and a few feet later, thinks he’s made a wrong turn.

He’s found himself in a small clearing with fairy lights hung from every tree, soft music playing from an unseen source, a big band number he remembers from dance halls in his early twenties. There isn’t a grill or any sign of a barbecue, but when he turns, he discovers what  _ is _ here.

More correctly:  _ who _ is here. 

Bucky Barnes is standing under the soft light, a small box that’s mostly bow in his hands. He’s beautiful, but isn’t he always? 

Steve approaches him, feeling like he’s moving through a dream, unsure why his anxiety isn’t rearing its head at the moment. Then he realizes why his heart isn’t beating straight through his chest, why it feels like it’s settling into place, like everything in the universe is falling into place.

Looking at Bucky feels like coming home. Bucky is his home. And no matter what’s happened between them, he can’t be anxious about how much he loves him.

“Hey.” Bucky ticks a piece of hair behind his ear, a sign of his own nerves. 

“Hey yourself.” He could say anything right now —  _ I’m sorry, I don’t deserve you, I missed you so fucking much.  _ But he still feels like this could be a dream, and also, he should let Bucky talk. 

“So.” Bucky clears his throat and hands him the box; Steve takes it, still somewhat floating in this moment. “Happy birthday?”

Steve looks at the box and returns to staring at Bucky.

“I … I wanted to get you something, but uh, it wasn’t easy to wrap.”

“What is it?” Steve asks in a hushed tone that doesn’t sound like himself.

“An olive branch. A second chance?” Bucky lets out a shaky breath. “I figured...we could start with dinner?”

Steve can’t blink or think, can’t even release the tears he feels building, unstoppable like a tidal wave in his chest. The box in his hand shakes slightly now.

“I mean.” Bucky looks down and scuffs his shoe against the pavement, cheeks bright red. “I made the reservations with a teacher’s salary in mind, so it’s not exactly Hamilton? Like—“

Whatever Bucky was going to say gets lost when Steve falls to his knees and wraps his arms around Bucky’s waist, sobbing wildly into his middle. 

A second later, Bucky’s fingers tentatively thread through Steve’s hair, scratching at his scalp and soothing him.

It feels a whole lot like forgiveness; a damn lot like something he doesn’t deserve but is so unspeakably grateful for all the same. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think!?!?!?!
> 
>  
> 
> What if I told you the next chapter is called “The second first date”!?!


	6. A Second First Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky takes Steve on a date for his birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaahHHHHH here we go!
> 
>  
> 
>  **Warnings**  
>  Nothing new; more therapy talk/references to body dysmorphia
> 
>  
> 
>  _Notes_  
>  The chapter starts with a series of letters to Bucky from Steve. They're in italics and separated with four asterisks (****). Everything not crossed out is what Bucky can see; I crossed some things out to show you, the readers, what Steve removed from his drafts. 
> 
>    
> (I think like five people who read my Stucky fics also read my Star Wars fics, so if that's you, just know that yes, this is what I did in "On a Wing and a Prayer" aka the WWII fic, and yes, I'm back on my bullshit aka letter-writing for pining idiots)  
> ~I hope you enjoy!~

* * *

 

_Dear Bucky,_

_I finally got around to watching Anastasia today. You were absolutely right, it’s better than any Disney movie I’ve seen (although I have to be partial to Snow White, seeing as I was, well, alive when it came out). I really liked Dmitri, but I think that might be because he looks like someone I know_ ~~_but you’re a thousand times more handsome._~~

_Were you able to go see the Revolutionary War exhibit before it left? I remember you talking about it, and I was going to go in with Tony, but then he started asking if I remembered my good friends Patrick Henry and Thomas Jefferson, and it didn’t seem as fun anymore._

_So, I did what any normal person would do and threw him on top of a truck that was parked outside the museum. I think your kids would say “yeet.”_

_I hope you had a good day. You deserve nothing but good days._

_All my love,_

_SGR_

****

_Dear Bucky,_

_I don’t have much to say today. We had to go to West Virginia because of the flooding._

_I drove through WV back before the Chitauri and New York and remember how beautiful it was. How nice the people were. How the trees seemed to go on for forever._ _~~I can’t tell you how fucked up it was~~ _ _It was a tough day, and it made me remember how_ _fucking_ _badly I miss you. Not that I need a lot of reminders._

_I’m so sorry, Buck. If there’s one thing I can manage for the rest of my life, it’ll be to figure out how to show you how sorry I am._

_~~I keep thinking what if I’m as bad as Brock? What if I hurt you just like he did? How can you ever trust me again after what I did? I don’t deserve any kind of forgiveness, Bucky, but you should know that you don’t deserve to feel like you’re meant to be treated like shit just because I’m shit, and Brock was shit, and neither of us deserved you in the slightest. I love you and I’m so fucking sorry, and I just want you to know that you didn’t deserve what I did. You didn’t, Buck, you didn’t, you deserve every possible good thing, and I’d give up the shield in a fucking second if I thought that was what you needed to feel like you could be with me again, I’d give up the shield and the serum, I’d give all of it up just for you to look at me the way you used to before I fucked everything up--~~ _

_Pepper says hi. Thor says to tell you ‘fizzy lifting dick’ and he insists you’ll know what that means._

_All my love,_

_SGR_

****

_Dear Bucky,_

_Have you ever eaten a Taki? Holy Christ, they’re fucking disgusting._

_If you haven’t eaten a Taki: don’t eat a Taki. Don’t let Clint convince you to eat a Taki._

_Holy fuck._

_All my love,_

_SGR_

****

_Dear Bucky,_

_Therapy’s going well, better than it did the last time._ _~~Turns out I was fucked up in a way I didn’t even realize a person could be fucked up ! Hit the mental illness jackpot!~~ _   _I still have tough days here and there, and I know I have a lot more work to do, but I wanted to let you know that I understand. I really understand that you needed, and need space. I’m a lot to handle on my good days, and what I did...there’s no excuse, Buck. There isn’t._

 _My therapist wants me to talk to you about a lot of this stuff, but I won’t bother you unless you’re ready to talk because I’m the person who fucked up. I don’t get to demand an audience with you. J ~~ust know that~~_ ~~_I’m so fucking in love with you I can feel myself calling out to you when I sleep and nothing helps when I wake up and you aren’t there_~~ _I’m sorry. Beyond sorry. And if you ever want to let me know about how you’re feeling - Wendy, my therapist, said it’s good for something she calls closure -- or about how you felt when we ended things, I’m here._

_I’ll always be here for you, Buck. Til the end of the line._

_All my love,_

_SGR_

****

_Dear Bucky,_

_I must have dialed your number about two dozen times today. I never could go through with it, though. I just keep getting worried that I’m bothering you, even with these letters, which for all I know, you’re throwing in the trash as soon as you see them (not that I would blame you)._

_It’s the first day of July, and it’s coming up on a month where I haven’t heard your voice._

_~~Clint played a Snapchat from you yesterday while he was watching tv, and he had the sound up so he could hear it, and you were laughing Buck, I swear to God and on my mother’s grave, there’s nothing like the sound of you laughing. I just want to make you laugh again, even if it’s just one more time.~~ _

_Miss you. I hope you’re well._

_All my love,_

_SGR_

****

***

Bucky re-reads a few of the letters, the ones that had really convinced him to change his mind, while he’s waiting for Steve. He’s anxious and fidgeting; he stands under the lamp post in the clearing before changing his mind and sitting on the bench.

The bench is under a shadow, though, and he doesn’t want to surprise Steve _too_ much, aka jump out at him from the darkness, so he stands and goes back to the lamp post. He folds the letters and tucks them into the pocket of his bomber jacket, a navy blue number that he picked out with Clint the other day (who knew Hawkeye loved shopping montages?), trading it out for the small gift box, before he sits back down on the bench.

A minute later, he hears footfalls on the nearby path, and he stands, heart in his throat. Steve walks into the clearing, and stops, frowning down at his phone before looking around at the lights Bucky and Sam spent forty-five minutes putting up earlier today while Wanda cackled and made fun of them from the bench.

(Pietro had taken mercy on them after watching Sam and Bucky struggle for almost an hour, and he’d finished the job in less than fifteen seconds. Punk.)

When Steve turns slightly and sees him there, his eyes widen almost comically, pink flooding his perfect cheeks. He doesn’t say a thing for several uncomfortable seconds, but he walks towards Bucky, eyes wide, like he’s trying to convince himself that this is real.

“Hey.” Bucky tucks some of his loose hair behind his ear, wishing he’d put all of it up in a bun, and smiles tentatively at him, although realistically his mouth probably only moves a few millimeters.

“Hey yourself,” Steve mutters, his eyes roving over Bucky so much that it feels like physical touch.

Bucky fights the urge to shiver, or worse, jump him in the middle of this goddamn park on a classy goddamn evening (and also he’s still not completely happy with Steve, how things had ended a month ago, what had happened...but also...the man is a sexy Dorito. Bucky’s only human, no matter how ‘super’ he is).

“So … happy birthday?” He hates that it sounds more like a question, but he hands Steve the box, and the other man takes it with hands that noticeably shake, almost as much as Bucky’s are shaking; he stares down at the gift and worryingly, doesn’t say anything. “I … I wanted to get you something, but uh, it wasn’t easy to wrap.”

“What is it?” Steve’s eyes are still comically wide.

“An olive branch. A second chance?” _Get it together._ “I figured...we could start with dinner?”

Steve still doesn’t say anything, and now Bucky’s beyond paranoid that Steve never wrote those letters at all, someone with who’s very good at copying Captain America’s handwriting wrote them in an attempt to make Bucky sad and broken and pathetic and -- _well, that’s something to explore in therapy._

His face feels like the surface of the fucking sun right about now, and Bucky stares down at his shoes to avoid awkward eye contact with a very silent Steve Rogers.

“I mean. I made the reservations with a teacher’s salary in mind, so it’s not exactly Hamilton? Like—“

Steve’s on his knees a second later, his arms wrapped around Bucky’s middle, sobbing his heart out and staining the new bomber jacket, navy blue running into black under the force of his tears. Bucky’s startled at first, but then he threads his fingers through Steve’s hair and scratches a few times, the way Steve always liked, like he was some big cat that just wanted to curl up in Bucky’s side and exude his mega-warmth all over the place.

Steve cries for so long that Bucky starts to get alarmed regarding dehydration prospects, but eventually Steve starts to whisper something into Bucky’s waist, something he would probably miss if it weren’t for the knock-off serum in his veins.

“I don’t deserve this.”

“Hey.” Bucky kneels down to match Steve and offers him an admittedly watery smile. “Let’s not talk about deserve, okay? I want to take my best guy to dinner. And we’ll go from there.”

Steve nods, his eyes slipping shut for a second, and they clasp arms as they stand. Bucky looks up at Steve and he looks like an angel under the lights, the music Tony had selected playing softly in the background, and on a whim, Bucky smiles genuinely.

“Care for a dance, Captain?”

Steve blushes deeply, and Bucky smiles proudly to himself as they start to sway with a little less grace than usual under the lights in the park, the stars blossoming overhead. After resisting for a total of thirty-three seconds, Bucky leans forward and rests his head on Steve’s shoulder, not missing the sharp intake of breath from the taller man.

He should be wary, he knows; Steve hurt him, betrayed him, and they have a lot to talk about.

But for right now, he feels safer than he has in over a month, and he doesn’t want to trade that feeling in just yet. So he just dances with the man he loves, and decides to wait for everything else to start mattering.

***

“You look good, Buck. Real good.”

Steve’s smile is painfully soft across the table, and Bucky blushes and looks down, wishing the waitress hadn’t walked away with their menus so he could pretend to be reading it.

“You’re not so bad yourself, Rogers.”

And it’s true. Even if Steve clearly hasn’t been sleeping (the circles under his eyes are honestly _terrifying,_ and what’s even scarier is the fact that Clint had warned Bucky that Steve looks about a hundred times better than he had three weeks ago), he’s shaved the beard that Bucky saw in the news just four days ago (and he’d fought the urge to punch his tv when the conservative pundit had sneered about _letting himself go_ if only because these days if Bucky feels like punching his tv, he’d punch _through_ his tv, and probably through the wall behind it as well), and he’s dressed nicely, in a well-fitting short-sleeved button down ( _Arms! Arms! Arms!_ Something untameable in Bucky notices) and comfortable pants.

Steve’s smile is even softer when he looks up, and Bucky manages to smile back through his nerves. They don’t say anything for a long moment; Steve just smiles at Bucky, and Bucky fights the urge to jump out of the booth they’re sitting in and sprint for the door (and as much as he hates what Hydra did to him, it’s pretty gratifying to know that only Pietro Maximoff would be able to catch him) or worse, jump across the booth and into those incredible, thick arms that Bucky’s maybe been dreaming about because his subconscious is so much weaker than his conscious and --

“Sorry if you were looking forward to the picnic,” he blurts out, and he winces a second later.

“What?” Steve looks a little taken aback, and Bucky curses himself internally.

“Just...I know Clint lured you there tonight because he said there was a veterans’ event, and...I’m sorry? If you were looking forward to that?”

Steve’s smile falters, and Bucky flails, wondering _why does he ever even talk,_ but then Steve miraculously starts to laugh.

“Shit,” he wheezes, “Oh my God, I’d completely forgotten about that.”

Bucky laughs too because _fuck him_ Steve has a nice laugh, and he’d almost forgotten the way it sounded, low and rough and warm, and it’s a nice moment where they’re laughing together, not at Bucky, but at the mild ridiculousness of the situation.

“I wanted to see you a few days ago,” Bucky admits, and Steve sobers up quickly at that. “Alright, I wanted to see you pretty much the second I walked out of the Tower, but...there was a lot I needed to think about, and then I didn’t hear from you--”

“I didn’t think you wanted to hear from me.” All too quickly, the laughter in Steve’s face gives way to horror. “I - I thought you wanted space, thought it was over between us--”

“Yeah.” Bucky makes a face and looks out towards the restaurant, half-hoping the waitress will come back and let them know that they’re actually out of brussel sprouts tonight. “Uh, Clint mentioned that you...assumed I’d broken up with you.”

“You _didn’t_?” Steve honestly squawks, and Bucky tucks that sound away to make fun of later, later when Steve isn’t openly about to start crying in public right in front of him.

“I mean, I guess I...did? I didn’t say the words, but I get that’s what you heard, and...when I didn’t hear from you…” Bucky shrugs, studying his hands instead of making himself make eye contact with Steve. “I just figured, y’know.”

Steve clearly doesn’t know, if the small vein popping out in his forehead is any sign. Bucky wonders briefly if supersoldiers can have bad blood pressure before he sighs and grits out the thought that’s been haunting him for almost a month.

“It was always too good to be true that you’d be interested in me,” he mutters, shrugging with his right shoulder, and not his left. His left arm, while still scarred, doesn’t technically hurt him anymore, the whatever-the-fuck-that-was they put in him taking care of the muscle weakness, but Bucky’s got ten years of habit built up. “I figured that you’d finally woken up and realized that...that I wasn’t what you--”

He hears a small grunt across the table, and he looks up to see that Steve is an even brighter shade of red than before, the vein in his forehead almost throbbing now.

“Are you...okay?”

“I’m good,” Steve lets out a noisy breath and shakes his head. “Uh - I’m just - I don’t want to tell you not to feel that way because of course how you feel is valid” - his words start to pick up speed like they’re causing him physical pain to grit out-- “I just, holy fucking shit, Bucky, I love you so goddamn much, I’ve been going out of my fucking mind without you, I’ve been in love with you pretty much since the moment I laid eyes on you, and--”

“Uhm. Caesar salad?”

The waitress is back, and she’s about as red as Steve is; they’d been so wrapped up in each other that they hadn’t noticed her approaching. They startle away from each other, as they’d both been leaning over the table during Steve’s impassioned speech, and with a small squeak the girl sets the salad down in front of Steve and almost sprints away from the table.

Steve huffs an embarrassed laugh, and Bucky smiles as well; a second later, Steve groans again.

“What?” Bucky asks softly.

“I just -- I don’t have any utensils.” Steve buries his face in his hands and groans. “Oh, and I scared the waitress away. Oh God.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky assures him, trying to pry his hands away from his eyes. “Honestly, Steve, I’m sure she’s heard weirder.”

“Weirder than a reverse break-up?” Steve shakes his head but drops his hands. “Trust me, Buck, I’ve got a fuckin’ eon worth of groveling built up. Wanted to grovel the second you said you were leaving, but I knew you didn’t want me to.”

“Honestly, at the time I kinda did,” Bucky admits, and Steve looks like he might _actually_ kick himself, so he holds a hand out, and Steve takes it. “But I’m glad you didn’t. I - the last month has been difficult, I won’t lie” -- and it seems like it’s been pretty difficult for Steve, too -- “But I’ve been focusing a lot on everything that happened, processing it at my own pace, and it’s been really healthy for me.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Buck.” Steve pops his elbow up on the table and rests his chin on his hand, smiling with soft eyes.

“Also, I’m pretty sure Hawkeye is my best friend now, which is pretty cool.” Bucky shrugs like it’s _no big deal_ that a world famous assassin is his best friend, and Steve grins.

“Yeah, he’s pretty great. Talks about you all the time. I couldn’t tell for a while if it was meant to be a punishment or an incentive to get my shit together.”

“Knowing Clint? Probably both.”

“Probably.” Steve grins and eyes his salad dubiously. “D’you think---”

“If you eat that salad with your hands, I will kick you,” Bucky says primly. “You deserve better than a forkless salad, Steve.”

“What if I just--” Steve ducks his head towards his bowl, mouth open, and Bucky almost chokes on his laughter as he tries to stop his face from going into the greens.

“Stevie, no!”

Steve looks up with a bright smile, and Bucky can’t stop laughing -- the idiot has a piece of parmesan stuck to his chin, glued there by a glob of dressing, and even with that, he’s the most absurdly handsome person Bucky’s ever seen.

“C’mon,” he wheedles. “Just the croutons, then?”

“Nope.” Bucky shakes his head and pretends to eye the restaurant floor for a passing waiter; Steve does the same, and when he’s distracted, Bucky darts forward and snags a crouton, popping it into his mouth with a satisfying _crunch._

“You--” Steve stares at him, agape and betrayed, and Bucky snorts.

“You love me,” he says easily, and then he flinches because _fuck_ \--

“I really do,” Steve says wondrously enough, and Bucky doesn’t care that Steve’s got cheese hanging off his chin, doesn’t care that there’s an entire mountain range of shit between them - he loves this punk ass superhero with all he’s got, and after the last month of introspection, he realizes that what he’s got might actually be quite a bit after all.

“So, what have you been up to?” Bucky asks after their entrees (and utensils) have arrived.

“Therapy,” Steve reports, shaking his napkin out and eyeing his three (Fucking _three_ ) steaks ravenously. “Turns out I have what they call body dysmorphia-- Shit, sorry, that’s...probably not good first date talk, huh?”

“Probably not.”

Bucky smiles at Steve fondly before cutting his fork through his fish, which flakes perfectly. His stomach grumbles unhappily -- he has a feeling he should be eating more than he does, but he already eats twice as much as he used to, and he’s a fucking _teacher_ for crying out loud, he can’t always afford _three steaks in one sitting_ \-- and he hopes the large piece of sole will suffice in keeping his hanger at bay.

“But,” he continues, “This isn’t really a normal first date. So, if you wanna talk about therapy, I’m all ears.”

“Right.” Steve nods with a thoughtful look before taking a sip of his water (somehow half his first steak is...already gone. Bucky’s eaten one bite of fish, and Steve’s six ounces in). “I guess it all started before the experiment, when I was sick?”

Bucky listens for the next five minutes as Steve Rogers pours his heart out to him in the quiet booth in the corner of a restaurant his mother once took him to, and by the end of the tale, Steve’s shoulders are lifting and falling a little faster than they were before, like he’d just run five miles at full speed, and his eyes aren’t exactly clear, and Bucky knows, there at the end of _all_ of it (well, all of what Steve’s told him today, which is definitely the Sparknotes version), that there’s one thing that needs to be said.

“Hey. Steve?”

His utensils are on the table, have been since Steve launched into his story -- which had been interspersed with more than a dozen apologies to Bucky for a) “unloading on him” and b) “fucking everything up because [Steve] couldn’t see what was wrong with himself” -- and Bucky taps them lightly as he pulls together a coherent version of what he’s feeling.

“Yeah?” Steve takes a bite of steak and chews on it like it owes him a great personal debt, the tops of his cheeks ruddy.

“You gotta know.” Bucky clears his throat and rubs his palms on his slacks for a second, before he makes himself look at Steve, makes himself look him in the eye so he knows this is true. He holds his hands out flat on the table, and Steve places his hands in his, and Bucky squeezes them gently before continuing.

“You _gotta_ know… big or small...Big or small, you’re still Steve Rogers, the guy from Brooklyn who likes to paint, and who loves dogs more than anyone I’ve ever met, and who’d fight for the little guy even if it cost him everything. I don’t care if you’re big or small -- I’d love you no matter what.”

Steve doesn’t say anything: doesn’t look like he can. But, he does lower his head to where their hands are clasped, flipping them so that Bucky’s are on top, and he takes nearly a minute to kiss each and every one of Bucky’s knuckles, a blessing, a benediction.

They don’t move until the waitress comes back with the check, and even then, Steve doesn’t let go of Bucky’s hand, grasping it like it’s the last lifeline thrown to a drowning man; Bucky knows, because it’s exactly how he feels.

***

The two men sit on a park bench, not where they’d shared their dance earlier in the evening, but on another pleasant park bench in Brooklyn. Couples and families pass by, and the night air is heavy with a thousand and one nameless promises.

It’s a clear night, and Bucky appreciates how the moon shines off of Steve Rogers’s golden hair as they sip their coffees -- a latte for Bucky, black and iced for Steve -- and while they don’t talk every second, Bucky feels closer to him than he has since he woke up after Hydra, those days where they did nothing but sit in bed with Steve’s arms around him, fending off every dark thing the world could throw at them.

Steve does break the silence though, and it’s with a nervous smile that he asks, “Do you think I’ll get another date, Mr. Barnes?”

“Hmm.” Bucky pretends to think about it, tilting his head back to study the few stars he can see through the treetops. “I think you qualified,” he decides after a lengthy pause that has Steve physically squirming next to him.

“Punk.”

“Jerk.” Bucky nuzzles Steve playfully under his ear, the place that always had him squawking and shoving at him when they were wrestling.

He hears Steve’s breath catch, and he realizes how close they are; he can smell Steve where it’s strongest, the good, clean smell of him emanating from his neck, and Bucky bites his lip as he pulls away.

Steve’s pupils are utterly blown in the moonlight, and Bucky’s sure he doesn’t look much more composed; he knows he’s nearly devouring Steve with his eyes, his mind racing ahead to a hundred absolutely illegal things he could do to Steve if he pulled him off this bench and into the shadows of the park behind them.

“I don’t mean to impose,” Steve breathes. “And you don’t have to say yes, but, I was hoping--”

“Kiss me,” Bucky says, not caring if it sounds like a demand because _isn’t it_ a demand? “C’mon, Steve, I don’t mind kissin’ on the first date--”

Steve obliges, and Bucky hums happily when their lips meet, Steve’s hand steady and gentle on his jaw, turning his chin slightly so he can kiss him deeper. Steve doesn’t kiss fair, his tongue slipping between his lips almost immediately to stroke against Bucky’s, and he groans, his hand tangling in Steve’s shirt and hauling him in closer, not a care in the world that he’s seconds away from climbing into Steve’s lap on this public park bench, and making sure that Steve’s birthday is very happy for both of them.

“If we keep kissing like that, I won’t be able to walk you home like I intend,” Steve warns, pulling away, his voice hoarse and face fully flushed.

“Good,” Bucky mutters, but Steve shakes his head.

“Not tonight,” he whispers, and Bucky wants to _whine_ but logically he knows it’s a good idea. “We should take it slow.”

“Yeah.” Bucky nods reluctantly and pulls away, tongue dragging along a spot that Steve had slightly, ever so slightly, bitten.

Steve’s eyes track the movement hungrily, though, and Bucky smirks.

“But not too slow,” he ventures, and Steve nods, leaning forward to chase his lips with his own, and they return to kissing, slow but real and wonderful, under the stars.

***

Neither of them notice the sound of the camera shutter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhmMMmmmmMMmMMmM I wonder what that was?
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> Next chapter is called "A Field Day"
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> Let me know what you think!!! And yes, Bucky and Steve took a huge step forward, but they still have a lot of healing to do.
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> (p.p.s -- I don't know how many people reading this also read my Stucky-ABO fic "Mise en Place" but I might have...written most of a fifth chapter to that, so, uh, let me know if you want it and I'll finish it up?)


	7. A Field Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve is confronted with reality yet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings**  
>  Surprisingly, not that many, unless you count Steve going _off_ about politics in the '16 presidential elections.

Steve fully understands the phrase “walking on air” these days.

It feels different than it had at the beginning of his relationship with Bucky, when he’d hurtled in headfirst and kept telling himself that they’d figure everything out later, that it was more important to lean into how he felt. He’d known at the time that he was moving too fast, but had mistaken the fairy tale kind of love he felt with Bucky for a true foundation to a relationship. He’s spoken with Wendy about it a number of times: yes, what he and Bucky has is _real,_ a once (or twice, if you’re as lucky as Steve) in a lifetime kind of love, but it doesn’t excuse him from trying to establish a real trust with Bucky, from having to work hard, every day, at earning that trust and respecting it.

True to his word, they take things slow, lazy kisses at the end (or in the middle of, if he’s a lucky bastard) of their dates, hands clasped under dinner tables or over the armrest at a movie.

They go on three dates in that second week of July alone; and then, it seems that the universe has finally aligned, and Bucky’s on summer break at the same time all the world’s criminals have also clearly decided to go on vacation. Steve doesn’t have a single mission that calls him away, and then he’s off rotation for a week; he spends every other day with Bucky, goes to therapy twice a week, and catches up on all the Friend Stuff he’d let slip by when he was first seeing Bucky, and then when he was messily recovering from Bucky being kidnapped.

Sam takes him to Busch Gardens when he visits him in Virginia, and a picture of him cackling while trying to figure out the butter churn at Colonial Williamsburg goes viral on The Falcon’s Instagram. He and Nat finally eat an entire Vermonster, and Steve doesn’t care that the shirt that declares him a victor of the challenge is two sizes too small (a size even Bucky declares “a little too tight,” not that it stops him from raking his eyes appreciatively over Steve’s abs). He blushingly helps Pepper pick out colors for the nursery -- which is about the moment when he figures out that Pepper is pregnant, although when he whispers it to Bucky, his boyfriend rolls his eyes and mutters _She’s like two months along, idiot_ \-- while Tony fiddles with high-tech baby gear in the background.

It’s a glorious summer, drenched in golds and embossed with a shine that Steve doesn’t think will ever fade from his memory. His room fills with mementos: a framed picture of him and Nat covered in ice cream goo; a three-foot sculpture that Clint made at the art therapy class he got roped into attending with Steve, the sculpture that he _swears_ is supposed to be Lucky; a ridiculous stuffed snake Sam won for him at the ring toss (which Thor gleefully examined and then asked if he could send it to his brother, who apparently just _loves_ snakes).

The Tower feels more like home than ever, and it makes Steve’s head spin. He’d thought, in the years after the Battle of New York and Project Insight, that he’d been settling into his role because he no longer felt out of place. But, as he’s coming to terms with in therapy, a lack of discomfort does _not_ mean that he’s reached that ultimate goal of happiness, of finding his purpose. Now that he’s accepting all the not so wonderful parts of himself -- his temper, his body, his bouts of depression, his frequent bursts of anxiety that manifest in anger -- with the parts of himself that he does like -- his art, his love for his friends, his drive to defend the vulnerable, his dedication to the things he cares about, his conviction -- Steve thinks that maybe, just maybe, there is a real, genuine place for him here in the twenty-first century.

And that place still exists without Bucky. It’s something he’s spoken about with Wendy for hours at a time by the time late July rolls around; his love for Bucky is in no way diminished if he acknowledges that his life exists outside of Bucky. If anything, his love for his boyfriend means _more,_ because it’s the thing that holds the most meaning for him, the thing that makes the rest of it feel all the sweeter. He loves Bucky, and Bucky is his everything, but that doesn’t mean Bucky is everything.

It’s tricky, and convoluted, and complex, and it gives him a headache if he looks at it straight on, but to be fair, Steve was never all that good at being straight.

***

The calm that Steve feels this day probably should have clued him into the fact that a storm was on the horizon.

He isn’t necessarily designed for calm, always spoiling for a fight, so it makes sense that the universe would have built up a new, fresh shitstorm and dumped it on his front step, regardless of all the strides he’s taken in therapy.

Steve is coming back from another incredible date with Bucky -- they got to hold hands in public, and Bucky had let him kiss him in the botanical gardens, Steve’s hat pulled down over his eyes so no one would recognize him, his beard full and scratchy (something he knows from Bucky’s not terribly earnest complaints) -- when he randomly decides to make a stop at Tony’s lab.

It turns out to be a terrible mistake; when the doors slide open, he sees something flying across the floor, and Tony shouts, _“That’ll be it for today, thank you!_ ” to someone who’s hastily walking for the door. Steve frowns, trying to catch a glimpse of Tony, who is really...hiding behind a desk, and he’s hiding from a very small person who’s headed in Steve’s direction.

He tenses for a second, waiting for the threat, but he frowns when he realizes it’s just that pesky journalist, Christine...something. Christine...Evercast? That can’t be right.

“Captain Rogers!” She strides towards him, hand extended, and he doesn’t take it, not when there’s a clanging noise and a shout of _“Begone, witch!_ ” from Tony’s general direction. Her momentarily misplaced name pops up in his memory, and Steve gives a very rare thanks to the serum.

“Ms. Everhart.” He shakes the hand she offers him briefly and then lets go, eyeing Tony over her shoulder. “Always a pleasure, ma’am.”

He tries to scoot past her, but she puts a hand on his arm, her manicured nails digging in just _so_ to his bare skin, and Steve grits his teeth. Great. This is going to go great.

Steve Rogers does much, much better with the press when he has prepared statements (usually provided by Maria or Pepper) sitting in front of him.

“Can I help you? Ma’am?” The latter is added on sheer muscle memory, through a clenched jaw. Tony peeks out from behind his desk, wielding a robotic arm as a weapon, and squints suspiciously at the woman clutching Steve’s arm.

“I was hoping for a statement, Captain,” Everhart blinks up at him with a faux vapidity that does neither of them any favors.

“How does _have a nice day_ sound?” Steve quips, and he swears even JARVIS sucks in a breath at the level of snark in that one.

Right. Be nice to the press. Pepper Potts Rule #2.

She recovers pretty well, though, and continues to smile at him, although it’s distinctively colder now.

“No, I was hoping for a comment on your sexuality,” Everhart says bluntly, tape recorder already in hand, and Steve feels cold flush down his spine.

“Well, you won’t get one,” Steve snaps. “My sexuality is not public record.”

His response gets a smirk, and he writhes internally; that was just as good as any comment on his sexuality, and she knows it.

“America deserves to know, Captain Rogers,” the woman continues primly, self-righteousness leaking into her every syllable.

 _God_ , Steve knew she was the devil from Tony, but he swears she’s gotten so much worse since Fox News picked up her contract.

“There’s nothing that they need to know.” Steve stands as tall as he can and nods at her. “Now, if you’ll excuse me--”

She won’t excuse him, clearly, because she’s opening the attache case that had been tucked under her arm, and Everhart holds up a stack of papers for him to examine. Not papers, he realizes a second later.

Photos.

“Tell me more about how there’s _nothing they need to know,_ Captain.” She sounds like someone who’s just won a fight, and Steve wilts, one of the first times he can ever recall _wilting_ in any kind of fight.

She’s handed him photo after photo of Bucky, after all, specifically, photos of Bucky with Steve.

Bucky and Steve kissing on the park bench, on their second first date, Steve clean-shaven because all his friends had teased him about his Yeti beard; Bucky and Steve walking on a crowded sidewalk in the rain, Steve’s arm wrapped around Bucky’s shoulders, Bucky’s hand pressed to Steve’s chest while they stare at each other, obviously in love; Steve and Bucky getting dinner; Steve and Bucky goofing around in a spluttering fire hydrant that sends a jet of water across a steaming Brooklyn street, the setting sun catching the water droplets and making a prism, casting a rainbow along the bottom of the photo like an actual goddamn beacon that’s advertising their love.

His breath catches in his throat, and his eyes are burning, a humiliating option really when all he feels is _fury._

“Where did you get these?” He asks, his voice breaking, cracked down the middle. Everhart doesn’t answer, and the photos crumple in his hand as his fingers curl subconsciously into a fist; eyes blazing, he glares at her, and she shrinks from him, a seemingly involuntary movement. “ _Answer me,_ ” Steve snarls.

“You were on public property,” she says, straightening up once more and tossing her hair back primly. “And like I said, America has a right to know--”

Steve begins to systematically shred the photos she gave him, the glossy, thick photo paper ripping easily in his too large hands; his shoulders are heaving, and the world won’t stop spinning, and he thinks he might just open his mouth and discover that he can breathe fire, a latent power that he never knew about. He’s vibrating with fury, and he can’t even let the pieces of the photos go, he’s gripping them so tightly.

“You need to drop this at once,” Steve orders, trying to compose himself. He knows he looks terrifying, hell, he feels terrifying, but Everhart only seems to grow more pleased the angrier he gets.

“You can’t destroy those photos forever,” she simpers, batting her eyelashes at him. “I have back-ups to my back-ups--” She pulls out her tablet with a smirk, “and America _will_ find out about your secret lover--”

There’s a loud zapping noise, and the lights flicker in the lab, the machines all shutting down at once. A second later, JARVIS’s polite voice comes on the intercoms.

[ _I do apologize, sirs, but it appears that Mr. Stark’s EMP test was a success_ ].

“EMP?” Everhart asks, looking around until she spots Tony, now sitting on a workstation only a few feet away from them (he’d clearly moved when Steve was distracted) and fiddling with a device in his hand.

“Well, it’s sort of like an EMP. More like a really, really powerful magnet connecting with a computer. But it’s not a physical magnet. Or a physical computer. More like a --” Tony waves his hand around, a screwdriver in his grip, before shrugging. “Never mind. You wouldn’t get it. It’s real bad for tech, though. Sorry, I thought I asked you to leave?” He points the screwdriver at Christine Everhart.

“The Captain and I were talking,” she explains with a tight smile. “What was that about _bad for tech_?”

“It’s sort of like a...what are we calling it, JARVIS?”

[ _Big Brother Protocols, sir_ ] the long-suffering AI responds.

“Big Brother protocols,” Tony says with a nod, going back to the device in his hands. “Anyway, it wipes out more than just your usual tech. It sort of...hijacks any accounts that are being accessed in a nearby area and … wipes them clean. It's pretty Mission Impossible, honestly.”

“That’s a movie,” Steve points out, a realization building in his chest at the same time his very deep-seated affection for the irritating genius does. “I’ve seen that movie.”

“It’s a good one,” Tony agrees, his head bobbing to imagined music, and then he zaps himself with the device he’s holding, curses, and another pulse goes through the lab, the lights flickering, the machines shutting down briefly and turning back on. “Ah, shoot.”

“No.” Everhart opens her tablet, and even Steve can see that it’s the default factory settings that appear. She opens her photo app, but nothing is there, just blankness. “ _No!_ ”

“Well, goshdarnit, ma’am, I hope you don’t lose all your files,” Tony says with a winning smile, and Steve hides a laugh behind his hand.

“You can’t do this,” Everhart hisses. “This is my story -- the people need to know!’

“They’re about to know that you’re trespassing on my _private_ property.” Tony jumps down from the workstation and crosses his arms in front of his glowing chest. “Now, I’ve asked nicely, and I’ll ask again. Get the fuck out of my lab, why don’t you?”

She leaves with a huff, scowling with greater intensity than Steve ever thought possible, and when she leaves, he wilts again and collapses on a nearby stool, the joints groaning in protest. He buries his face in his hands and doesn’t look up, even when Tony pokes him with the prodding device he’s become so fond of.

 _“Why can’t they just leave us alone_?” Steve whispers, more to himself than to his friend, and Tony clears his throat before crossing the floor to sit next to him.

“You’ll figure it out,” Tony says kindly. “And...it might be a flaming pile of shit, but your friends won’t abandon you. We got your back, Cap. And trust me, I’ve weathered my share of scandals in the press. I’m a pro at this point.”

“...Thanks, Tony.”

***

Bucky takes the news of their impending scandal a lot better than Steve did.

“I mean, I’ve been out of the closet for over ten years,” Bucky says with a shrug. “I’ve known I was gay since March of ‘03.”

“That specific, huh?” Nat asks with a smirk from her perch on the back of Clint’s chair.

They’re all at Bucky’s apartment -- Nat and Bucky trying very hard to put the events of early June behind them, the efforts helped along by a very earnest Clint -- lounging around and avoiding the intense, late July heat in Brooklyn. Some inane sitcom is playing in the background, and Clint’s not really paying attention to any of them, his attention glued to the screen, Lucky panting at his feet, the melted remains of an ice cube in front of his crossed paws.

“What made you realize you were gay?” Steve asks curiously, surprised that he doesn’t actually know.

“Ben Abelman,” Bucky says with a sigh, closing his eyes blissfully. “Forgot to bring a gift to my bar mitzvah, and he kissed me, eighteen times, behind the middle school a week later to apologize. I took the apology very well, if I do say so myself.”

“That’s super cute,” Nat coos, and Bucky sticks his tongue out at her.

“It was _magical,_ ” he corrects with great dignity, and Steve quirks his lips, but doesn’t lift his eyes from their study of Bucky’s colorful living room rug.

It doesn’t go unnoticed of course, and Bucky knocks his socked foot into Steve’s leg a second later, stretched as he is across the couch they’re sharing.

“Stevie, baby, are you _jealous_?”

“No,” he grumbles mulishly. “You were thirteen, Buck, I’m not jealous.”

“Not jealous that someone else got my first kiss?” Bucky teases, and Steve blushes furiously. It’s not that he’s doing the mental math to figure out the precise odds that Ben Abelman never moved away because _what if he still lives in the neighborhood,_ and _what if he and Bucky meet, and Bucky realizes that it’s him he’s loved all along, and_ \--

Yikes. Big yikes, as Pietro would say.

“Oh, baby.” Bucky flops over to drape his arms over Steve’s shoulders, kneeling up on the couch to kiss his cheek. “I had a huge fuckin’ crush on you when I was twelve, I just didn’t know what to call it then.”

“Really?” Steve mumbles, his blush definitely not going away.

Thank _God_ Clint isn’t paying attention, but if Natasha’s evil grin is anything to go off of, he’s not going to forget this conversation for years to come.

“Really,” Bucky breathes, nosing Steve’s temple sweetly. Steve squeezes Bucky’s elbow, and his boyfriend settles into the couch at his side, leaning into him comfortingly.

“But it doesn’t bother you,” Steve asks quietly, returning to the point that had brought all this up. “They’re...they’re probably going to out me, babydoll, and that’s going to include you… I just didn’t think...all that publicity…”

“It’ll suck,” Bucky agrees, tilting his head. “But...we can get ahead of it, right? It’s not like I’m embarrassed to date you, the whole fuckin’ world is going to know how lucky I am, so...it’s really not as bad as it could be, Stevie. Perspective, remember? We faced Hydra, we can face the press.”

It’s his use of _we_ that has every nerve in Steve’s body lighting up in pleasure, the idea of _together,_ and he hums happily before leaning in to kiss Bucky a little less gently than he should, considering there are guests there.

“Cute,” Nat drawls, hooking a foot over Clint’s shoulder. He wraps a hand around her ankle and doesn’t look away from the screen. “If you guys really want to fuck with the press, just tell them you’re dating Clint, Steve.”

“Now that’s an idea,” Bucky marvels, and Steve snorts a laugh. “You’d probably have a cute ship name.” He squints his eyes before smirking devilishly, an all-too-handsome expression on his face. “I know! Stint. As in, you both have way too many _stints_ in the hospital.”

Natasha howls with laughter, which makes Lucky lift his head and huff grumpily.

“Hey, Steve’d be lucky to have me,” Clint complains, still not looking away from the tv. “Assholes.”

The three friends laugh, and eventually even Clint does too, although he mutters complaints into his dog’s fur the whole time.

***

Steve practices coming out in the mirror, practices coming out in front of Maria Hill, who pats his arm and tells him he did a good job, managing to make it not sound patronizing, practices coming out to JARVIS, who tells him he did a good job, managing to make it sound very patronizing -- he even practices to Pepper’s very small baby bump, while he should be helping her lift some furniture for the nursery at IKEA (how Tony had howled with complaint when he found out _that’s_ where Pepper wanted her baby furniture from).

He practices on the off-chance that someone from the press catches him unawares, but nothing really happens, at least, not until the press conference that’s scheduled to coincide with the five year anniversary of coming out of the ice.

It’s not the date SHIELD arbitrarily picked as his resurrection -- at first, they’d claimed he’d woken up in January of ‘12, just four months before the Chitauri invasion, but in reality, it had been August of 2011, and after Steve had let that little detail slip in an interview (he’s reliably told that Maria Hill and Nick Fury had “Facepalmed” at the exact same moment), it’s the date that’s now public record.

The questions are very normal at first, the typical questions of what’s the weirdest modern thing he’s gotten used to, and how does the shield feel after all these decades, and does he remember the ice (he does, and he doesn’t, and he doesn’t like to talk about it), but it takes a much more … interesting turn when someone asks him about the presidential elections in November.

“I know you aren’t allowed to comment on politics, Captain, but we were wondering -- was there anything you wanted to share about your thoughts on the current candidates?” A kid from Buzzfeed holds out the microphone, hand shaking, clearly not even a year out of college if that.

“I’m not allowed to comment on politics,” Steve agrees because he isn’t, not when he represents SHIELD. But, at the same time… “But, what we’re seeing goes outside politics, doesn’t it?”

“...Sir?”

Steve swears he can hear all of his handlers collectively groaning.

“Well, when you have one side espousing hatred and cruelty and malice, then it’s not politics. I picked up the shield to defend the world from bullies, and I think we have a very, very clear bully in the race, don’t we?” He folds his hands on the table in front of him, and determinedly glares right at the Fox News section of the press conference.

“Could you elaborate on … the bullying, Captain Rogers?’

“Of course. When you have one candidate who’s built a career off of harassing and harming the poor, using his father’s wealth to amass an absolutely faulty, flawed empire, and cheating and lying and stealing his way to maintain even a semblance of power...that’s not who you want _in_ power. And when his right hand man, the one he and his party selected to rule at his side, is someone who actively wants things to return to how they were eighty years ago, who is against a woman’s right to choose, and who is against people’s right to be who they are, well, it’s terrible.”

“Do you … think you’ve ever seen rises to power like this?” The kid fidgets with their mic, and Steve sincerely hopes that him and the kid will have a job after this.

“I absolutely have. People taking advantage of other people’s fear and using that to enact policies built on xenophobia, racism, and homophobia. I lived when fascism was on the rise, and it seems very much to be on the rise again today.”

“Fascism, sir?” Another journalist stands up, from CNBC. “Could you clarify which side you think is displaying fascist --”

“Is it not obvious?” Steve demands right back. “We have a vice presidential candidate who wants to bring back how hard it was to be queer, how hard it was to be a woman, who wants to return to a time where people hid who they were, and couldn’t achieve their full potential and live in society for fear of being mocked, bullied, or murdered. I mean, this man openly supported conversion therapy. Do we _really_ want that kind of person to have power?”

A journalist near the front raises their hand, and Steve gestures at them, utterly shocked Fury hasn’t sent six armed guards to tackle him away from the microphone at this point. All he can see to the side of the stage is Tony Stark, who’s giving him two thumbs up, a very eager, very manic grin on his face.

“Do you think you take the vice president’s past actions a little more seriously than the next person because of your struggles with your own sexuality?”

Steve blinks, a weight sinking like lead in his stomach. “My struggles with my sexuality,” he repeats. “I’m sorry, but could you clarify what you mean?”

“I mean: what do you say about the rumors that you’re gay?” The smug look on his face really makes Steve’s teeth clench. At this point, Tony’s going to have design replacement dentures for him with all the grinding his teeth are doing these days.

“I’m not gay.” Steve scowls at the man who asked, and he sits down, still holding his mic out, still looking smug. “I loved Peggy Carter, and I’ll probably love her until the day I die.” He looks out into the audience, and imagines Bucky in the back corner, like they’d talked about this morning when they discussed what to do if Steve started to feel anxious during the conference.

“So these rumors that you’re dating a man are false?”

“Well, those would be true.” Steve shrugs and waits, and sure enough:

Chaos. It’s utter chaos in the room, and when Steve looks out of the corner of his eye, he can see Tony Stark stuffing a fist in his mouth to stop from howling with laughter.

“But you just said you aren’t gay, Captain?”

“Son, the word you’re looking for is bisexual. I think it’s been a thing for a while.” Steve huffs and sits back in his chair, crossing his arms in front of his chest with an impressive scowl. As he’d expected (but hoped he wouldn’t be proven right), the room explodes into questions.

_“Captain-- are you saying--”_

_“It’s unnatural--”_

_“You cannot expect us to accept that--”_

_“Bisexual? How can you be sure?”_

_“--Completely unnatural--”_

_“Are we supposed to just believe that you’re --_ ”

“Well, let that be a lesson to you kids. The B in LGBT does _not_ stand for burgers.” Steve pushes away from the table, stands up, and looks around, hands on his hips. “But golly gee, I sure could go for one of those right now.”

“Captain America, are you--”

He points a finger at the unlucky journalist who just called out to him, and the man, to his credit, looks stricken.

“I do _not_ answer to that name. My name is Steven Grant Rogers.  I answer to Steve, or Rogers, but I do _not_ represent the the United States of America when I’m out of uniform, or in my personal life, and nor should I. I am bisexual, and ninety-fucking-eight years old. I am very tired, and very depressed, and I’m _very_ done with this conversation. Now sit down.”

Steve rips his microphone off his collar and walks off stage -- one last journalist reaches out to him, the mic almost touching his elbow, as they shout: “Where are you headed, Captain Rogers?”

“I’m going to go engage in some _unnatural_ shenanigans with my boyfriend,” Steve reports. “Thank you for asking.”

He’s won a lot of fights in his time, but as he pushes the doors to the room open, Tony Stark’s voice filling the intercom (“ _Shows over, folks, go home and maybe donate to the Stark Spectrum Fund, which benefits homeless LGBTQ teens, tonight_ \--”) while he strides out into the hallway, Steve can’t help but think this is his most satisfying victory yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> asjkfasjfklsd;jfklsdjfasdkl;fjskl;fjdkjf;
> 
> Steve and Bucky continue to heal in the next chapter, and honestly, at this point, I might just scrap the angsty Act II I had planned and just let them cavort around!!!!
> 
>  
> 
> (outline, hissing at me from the depths of my computer: _"noooo...the angst...it is ...too powerful....suffering. we must cause suffering"_ )


	8. Always Summer, Always Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Steve continue to heal and grow closer together, taking a very large step in that direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Notes_
> 
>  
> 
> 1\. The title for this chapter comes from Brideshead Revisted:  
> "If it could only be like this always – always summer, always alone, the fruit always ripe and Aloysius in a good temper."
> 
> 2\. *Eyes the rating for this fic*
> 
> Uhhh, yeaahhhh, so if you don't like smut, uhhhhh....  
>  
> 
> Maybe stop reading after Bucky and Steve go shopping?
> 
>  
> 
> **Warnings**
> 
> Mildly kinky seduction
> 
> Consensual sex

Bucky sighs for dramatic effect as he walks into Steve’s apartment with Clint; he toes his shoes off at the door and places them into the tray that Steve always seems to forget about, judging by the pile of shoes in the corner, and he places his hands on his hips, fake-glaring at Steve.

“Was’wrong?” Steve sits up blearily from the couch and wipes his eyes, squinting to look at Bucky who’s started to tap his foot. “Did I forget somethin’? Oh. Hey, Clint.” 

His hands, slightly less graceful than normal because he seems to have been napping pretty deeply when they walked in, fumble a greeting to Clint.

“Do you have any leftovers?” Clint asks, already walking to the fridge. 

“Huh? Yeah, help yourself.” Steve stands and stretches, the movement exposing an inch of glorious skin and muscle, but Bucky refuses to be distracted from his mission. “What’s wrong, Buck?”

“I just saw my students,” Bucky reports. “For our last History Club meeting of the summer.”

“There’s over three weeks left in summer?” Steve wipes a hand down his face and then ambles forward, clearly coming in for a hug -- and Bucky isn’t the least bit impervious to supersoldiers draping themselves sleepily (adorably) over his shoulders.

“Yeah, well,” Bucky dodges the hug for a second, and ignores the absolutely sweet way Steve pouts at him. “A lot of the kids are going out of town or want to take the time to finish up their AP assignments. But, see, they told me the funniest thing.”

“Funny?” Steve smiles at him, perking up by the second. 

If Clint weren’t here, Bucky probably would drag Steve to the couch and wrap himself around him, take advantage of the cool temperature of Steve’s swanky Brooklyn apartment and maybe snuggle under a blanket. But, Bucky needs to focus because Clint  _ is  _ here, and he can’t climb or snuggle or kiss Steve as freely as he could normally. 

“You’re a meme,” Clint reports, coming back from the fridge with one piece of pizza poking out of a pocket in his cargo pants, one in his hand, and half a sandwich in the other hand.

“A meme?” Steve blinks slowly, and Bucky scowls at Clint.

“I was going to tell him!”

“You were taking too long.” Clint takes an obnoxiously large bite of sandwich, and Bucky continues to scowl. “Oh, shit, did you want a bite?”

Bucky slaps at the sandwich that’s suddenly in his face, and Clint twists to make sure it doesn’t fall on the floor. 

“Rude!” Clint scurries out of the way and shoves the rest of his sandwich in his mouth.

“I’m a meme?” Steve pulls his Stark Tech phone out of his pocket and types quickly. “Oh, shit! I’m a meme!”

“You’re the spiciest meme out there,” Bucky confirms, crossing his arms and shaking his head. “Which amuses my students to no end because they know  _ who  _ you meant when you said you were getting up to -- what was the phrase?”

“I don’t recall,” Steve hedges, taking a few small steps backward, his expression clearly aiming for contrite but landing more on  _ privately  _ amused. 

“Unnatural shenanigans with his boyfriend!” Clint supplies helpfully, now perched on Steve’s countertop, squatting while eating his first slice of pizza. 

“Yes, that’s the one,” Bucky points a finger at Steve, mock-glaring at Steve, “You announced our sexual proclivities to the world, Steve, the entire world, and all my students.”

“I didn’t mean--” Steve looks ashen now, squirming, and Bucky rolls his eyes.

“I know you didn’t  _ mean _ , punk. And for what it’s worth, it was very satisfying.”

Steve nods, now looking actually contrite, and Bucky relents fully, crossing the distance between them to wrap his arms around Steve’s middle and peek at the phone screen.

It’s a screenshot of the press conference, where Steve’s got his full “Captain America Disapproves of Your Life Choices” face on, eyebrows lowered, mouth firm, and he even has his finger raised to a reporter in true scolding fashion. 

The top text reads “The B in LGBT does not stand for” and the bottom text reads “A Babbling, Bumbling, Band of Baboons!”

“Old school format,” Bucky notes lazily, turning his face so he can nuzzle under Steve’s jaw; he can hear his breath catch in his throat, and that’s probably one of the best things that’s come out of his enhancement, the ability to really appreciate how much he effects Steve on a biological level, “But a classic. Kinda like you.” 

He kisses Steve’s cheek, and can feel the blush blooming under his lips. 

“There are other memes,” Clint says, cramming his second piece of pizza in his mouth while he talks. “Show him the reaction one.”

“Oh, right.” Bucky snorts and taps on Steve’s screen for him; Steve drops a drowsy kiss in his hair while he types his search query, and Bucky’s gut tightens uncontrollably. 

Steve laughs out loud when it pops up.

This screenshot is a tweet that says “When your mom says that it’s your brother's turn with the Xbox” with a photo attached of Steve making the most unholy sneer of disgust Bucky’s ever seen him make -- he was told by Christophe that it was from the moment of the press conference where a reporter shouted out that bisexuality was unnatural.

“You’re famous, babe.” Bucky squeezes Steve so hard that Steve actually releases a breath with a surprised little laugh, and when he looks up, Steve’s smiling down at him like he’s the most wondrous thing he’s ever seen. 

Their lips have only barely met when a fork comes flying towards them, and Steve barely catches it with a growl. 

“Some of us are eating here,” Clint says primly, holding up his crust.

“You’re about to be eating somethin’ a lot different,” Steve rumbles, storming forward, shoulders set, and Clint yelps and hops down off the counter, scampering down the hallway with Steve hot on his heels.

“Phrasing, Steve,” Bucky wheezes, clutching his side, but the other two are too preoccupied to notice. 

He settles for watching them chase each other around for three minutes, a fond smile on his face and a warmth in his chest that reminds him that no matter what happens, this is his home, this is his family.

***

After their second first date, and all their other seconds, Bucky can feel an itch growing under his skin. 

Everything is heightened after the serum -- his emotions, his speed, his strength, his attention span -- and it appears his libido is no exception. Before, he’d been experiencing sexual attraction in a way he assumed was normal and healthy for a person who had severe emotional trauma with trust issues, but  _ now - _

He just might eat Steve Rogers given half a chance. 

And Steve Rogers, infuriatingly, is  _ determined  _ to take things at a glacial pace. 

When he starts to kiss down Steve’s neck when they’re making out on his couch one day, Steve groans and tangles his finger in Bucky’s hair - he exults and thinks  _ fucking finally!  _ but a second later, the tv is on, and Steve gives him a sweet, unruffled smile as the Golden Girls theme song starts playing. The rejection is softened by how Steve encourages him to curl up in his side and put his head in his lap, but when Bucky dozes off a few minutes later, Steve’s skilled fingers still carding through his hair, he realizes that he’s fallen into Captain America’s Sexless Trap yet again.

By the time the third week of August rolls around, Bucky hasn’t gotten so much as a dry handjob in well over two months, and he’s gone back to relying on the toys he used during his stint as a single person; nothing satisfies him at all though, knowing that he could be climbing Steve, but Steve is being obtuse about boundaries and pacing, so he sets out on a new, all-important mission:

Seduce Steve Rogers.

He realizes how much he’d taken for granted that golden part of their relationship, where he just had to lift his eyebrow a certain way, and Steve would be leading him into the bedroom, or following, depending on the mood. Now, he has to contend with the mountain of shit that exists between them, shit labeled “Hydra Experimentation” and “Near-Death Experiences” and “Therapy” and “Betrayal of Trust” and “That Month Where We Were Broken Up.”

But, no matter what’s happened between them, Bucky wants Steve; he chose Steve and chooses Steve every goddamn day, he loves him, and if he doesn’t get that dick soon, he might just go out of his sad, horny mind.

Fucking serum.

He mumbles something about it to Steve once, when he pops a boner at a terrible time -- in the middle of Nat’s birthday party (not that it’s actually her birthday, she’s never told them that day, so Tony had apparently thrown a dart at a calendar three years ago and unilaterally declared August 18 her birthday)-- and Steve just gives him a sympathetic smile.

“I know the feeling,” he sighs, nosing along Bucky’s hairline and pressing a chaste kiss into Bucky’s temple, a kiss that just makes the fire in his blood even hotter. “Back in ‘43, a stiff breeze had me squirming. Especially in those pants.”

Bucky groans and shoves at Steve at the same time Thor emerges from the kitchen, holding a cake with an inordinate amount of lit candles on it. “Don’t mention those pants right now,” he grumbles, shifting slightly so he can adjust his erection out of sight of the rest of the Avengers.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Steve murmurs, but he looks too good in the low lighting, and he sings along to “Happy Birthday” horrifically off-key but it’s still the prettiest thing he’s ever heard, and he licks frosting off his fingers like he’s doing it a favor, and he still won’t fuck Bucky, so Bucky takes matters into his own hands quite literally not even an hour later, grumbling under his breath about martyr complexes and infuriating supersoldiers the whole time.

***

Bucky gets inspiration for his full-on seduction when he and Steve walk through a department store, looking for inspiration for Pepper’s baby shower gift; she’s four months along, but Steve’s endearingly anxious about finding her a good gift, so Bucky hauls around Manhattan on his last week of summer break helping him find the perfect thing.

They head towards the baby section when something clearly catches Steve’s eye; he’s bright red a second later when he fixes his gaze on the Baby sign up ahead, and Bucky looks around him to see what’s gotten him so hot and bothered --

It’s the lingerie section. 

Bucky lifts his eyebrows up at Steve, who determinedly does not look over at him, and he smirks.

“See somethin’ you like, babe?”

“No,” Steve mumbles, his face brighter red than the cheeky panties that are on display. 

“Really? Because I think those are kinda cute.” Bucky pivots and starts walking towards the lingerie, and Steve grips his arm with a panicked yelp.

“Buck!”

“What?” Bucky blinks up at him innocently. “They’re pretty, Stevie. Don’t you like pretty things?”

His boyfriend’s tongue darts out and wets the middle of his bottom lip while he searches for something to say, and Bucky gets a very, very good idea. 

“C’mon, let’s look at the prettiest thing they got--”

“Buck,” Steve whines, tugging on his arm again, and his heart rate has accelerated to the point where Bucky can hear it without focusing. “What if someone recognizes me?”

No one’s going to recognize Steve Rogers, Bucky wants to argue, because Steve Rogers is sporting a full beard and a hat, is wearing a heinous t-shirt that declares him the Wing Eating Champion of Lower East Side, and is also disastrously wearing a pair of cargo pants from Costco. Bucky had almost refused to go out in public with him this morning, but somehow, the ensemble works (it’s the ass, Bucky knows, no one can even see what Steve is wearing when it’s ensconcing That Ass).

But, Steve looks sufficiently flustered, and Bucky has all the intel he needs, so he sighs and twists his arm out of Steve’s grip so he can take his hand instead, and tugs him away from the lingerie and towards their actual objective. The relief pouring off of Steve is palpable, but when he’s busy looking at crib sizes and searching for reviews on Amazon, Bucky takes a step back and does some online shopping of his own.

***

Everything is perfect, or as close to perfect as it’s going to get. At least, Bucky tells himself that to quell the anxiety in his gut. He’s always been a perfectionist, and there’s a lot at stake here, namely, his dignity.

Steve had run out to get them some wine for dinner, at Bucky’s request, and now he’s got everything ready: 

The candles are lit, illuminating a path from the front door, through the living room, to the bedroom; the bed is neatly made, which it hadn’t been this morning because Steve is kind of a slob; the lube is optimistically sitting out on the bedside table; and, Bucky is washed and clean and more than a hundred percent ready to go.

He fidgets and fiddles with his chosen outfit for this last ditch attempt at seduction, and he’s busy wishing to the probably apathetic universe for this to go well when the front door unlocks, and JARVIS pleasantly greets Steve at the door.

“Bucky?” He can hear Steve’s slightly surprised voice from the front of the apartment; keys hit the entry table a second later, and the door closes and locks. “What is all this, sweetheart?”

Bucky squares his shoulders, smooths out silk under his palms one more time, and marches to the door of the bedroom. 

“Hey, Stevie,” he greets, his voice unintentionally raspy from nerves and the desire that’s buzzing under his skin despite all the anxiety.

“Guh.” Steve almost drops the bottle of wine on the floor, but just barely manages to set it down next to his keys. “Bu--”

His eyes are wider than saucers, which Bucky takes as a compliment. He hopes the candles are providing the desired effect, the path stretching between them, light flickering in the apartment and illuminating the light blue, silk babydoll he ordered from a website that promised it would fit him.

He felt a little silly putting it on, but he’d be lying if he said the underwear wasn’t a hundred times more comfortable than briefs, the cool, soft material pleasant against his overheated skin on a hot summer day, and he sort of likes the way the top of the lingerie cups his chest, making it look soft and inviting and not a little on the thin side (another of Steve’s concerns -- Bucky’s thinner than he’s ever been, most likely from the increased metabolic consequences of his enhancement). 

Steve hasn’t said anything yet past his halting syllables, and Bucky tucks his hair behind his ear -- he’s wearing his hair down for the occasion, and it’s been fluffed out to its full, wavy, nearly curly glory -- while he waits for him to speak up.

When nothing is said for a few nerve-wracking seconds, Bucky clears his throat and speaks instead. 

“You seemed pretty interested in it the other day,” he begins quietly, his feet shuffling against the carpet. Steve takes a step forward, looking vaguely hypnotized, and Bucky feels a slight surge in confidence. “And -- I want you so badly, baby. I want you, all the time, and I know you think we should take it slow, but it’s been almost six weeks and I’m goin’ out of my mind wanting you. I’m not - I’m not breakable, and I know it’s not perfect, not by a long shot, but I want to share this with you again, and -- and I’m sorry if this was a stupid thing to do, I just - I wanted you to  _ see _ me again, like, sexually, and--”

“Bucky.” The word is more of a quiet rumble, and he quiets immediately at the light in Steve’s eyes as he takes another step forward. “You did all this for me?” 

Bucky nods frantically, arousal and nerves making it hard for him to speak again, and Steve looks like he’s on the prowl, taking slow and steady steps forward through the apartment towards him, his eyes dark and appreciative as he studies Bucky openly.

“God, sweetheart,” Steve chokes out. “Are you - are you  _ sure _ ? ‘Cuz I can’t lie to you and say I don’t want this, that I don’t want you - but --”

“Touch me,” and Bucky doesn’t care if it sounds like a whine, “I want you to  _ fuck  _ me, Steve, c’mon--”

It’s with a real growl now that Steve rushes forward; Bucky yelps when Steve reaches him and grips him by the back of the thighs, hauling him up into his arms and wrapping his legs around his waist. 

“You look good enough to eat,” Steve murmurs, his eyes hooded as they rake over his body. 

He leans up and licks along Bucky’s collarbone, sending a spike of lust through him, and Bucky grips Steve’s shoulders and throws his head back, his hair tickling the tops of his shoulder blades while Steve drowsily kisses the line of his throat. Bucky lowers his chin again to smirk at Steve, scratching at the hair at the nape of his neck. 

“Is that an offer?” He asks cheekily, but Steve offers him a lecherous smile.

“It’s an offer.” 

Steve strides forward into the bedroom and continues to lavish Bucky’s chest, the swells of muscle that stick out from the cups of the lingerie, with kisses and licks and even a few bites that grow less hesitant the more Bucky gasps and pleads, his hips rocking forward against Steve’s abdomen with every movement.

“Gotta put you down, babydoll,” Steve says, his gaze more reverent now as he shifts and lowers Bucky to the bed. “Then, what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to fuck me,” Bucky answers, hooking his fingers in the waistband of the irritatingly well-pressed khakis Steve always wears. “And I don’t want you to worry about breaking me.”

“Buck.” It’s whispered like a prayer, hanging heavy in the air between them as Steve cradles Bucky’s jaw. 

Bucky turns his head to kiss Steve’s palm, and looks up at him through lowered lashes. Then, with deliberate intensity, Bucky leans back on the bed, resting on his elbows while he drags his foot up Steve’s thigh, appreciating the way Steve’s breath hitches in his throat. When he’s sufficiently made the blush rise on every inch of skin visible on his boyfriend, Bucky flips over and crawls to the head of the bed.

And if he wiggles his ass on the way there, so what? He knows he looks good.

“You comin’ or what?” He asks when he’s propped up against the pillows, his lips tingling even though Steve hasn’t even properly kissed him yet. 

Steve puts a knee on the bed and gives him a look that any smartass follow-up comment he could have made dies in his throat well before it was even formed. Bucky tilts his hips up and shamelessly seeks friction, but the silk of the lingerie gives him little to nothing, and he makes a small whimper in his throat that he can’t recall ever making before.

“Buck,” Steve says, and it sounds almost like a warning.

“You’re only like, one letter away from gettin’ it right,” Bucky teases, only it’s too hoarse and too  _ needy  _ to really achieve the level of snark he was going for. “Come on, Steve.”

The lack of friction on his cock becomes too much, and Bucky goes to wrap his hand around it, maybe stroke it over the silk a little, for any kind of relief.

“Stop.”

Steve watches him hungrily, and Bucky freezes at the word. Steve licks his lips once, very carefully, and then begins to unbutton his shirt with a slowness that just doesn’t feel fair. The shirt’s off and on the floor, and Bucky’s hand is still hanging uselessly in space, his cock even harder now at the sight of Steve’s bare chest, and when Steve’s hands go to the thick belt he has on, Bucky whimpers again, a small noise of complaint that has Steve smirking. 

That’s a new expression. And it looks nearly feral.

_ Fuckity-fuck.  _

Steve disposes of his khakis with an air of single-minded distaste for even the idea of clothing, and returns to the bed completely naked, having pulled his briefs down with his khakis (and Bucky would make fun of his boyfriend for his old man underwear if his ass didn’t look so damn good in them).

“You want me to take care of that for you?” Steve asks, grinning as he climbs up the bed on his hands and knees, eyes on Bucky’s leaking cock which has by now started to peak out from the waistband of his light blue panties. 

“That’d be great,” Bucky gasps when Steve drops his mouth to his inner thigh and slides almost all the way up. Almost being the operative word. Steve pulls away and begins to drop delicate, teasing kisses to Bucky’s hip, and he whines again. “Steve--”

“I haven’t even kissed you yet,” Steve murmurs, pulling up and studying Bucky’s face hungrily. “What kinda date am I? You got all dressed up for me, and I need to treat you right, babydoll. Take my time, get you ready for me.”

“St--” His complaint gets cut off when Steve kisses him, filthily, stealing the breath from his lungs. 

Bucky grips Steve’s shoulder for any kind of anchor even though he’s practically lying on his back, Steve hovering above him, his broad and warm chest pressing against his -- but the whole time, Steve stays punishingly out of reach of his pelvis, so now matter how much Bucky writhes and twists his hips, he gets no relief. 

“Relax,” Steve whispers, pulling away to kiss down his neck and to the neckline of the lingerie, “I’ll take care of you.”

He hums appreciatively at the way Bucky hisses and arches under his hands and mouth, roaming every part of him Steve can reach, and by the time Steve wraps his lips around the leaking head of Bucky’s cock, Bucky’s about to ready to cry or beg or worse.

“Can I finger you?” Steve asks fifteen seconds later, all politeness, like he doesn’t have saliva and precum shining on his mouth, and Bucky moans in response. “Is that a yes or a no, babydoll?”

“It’s a please,” Bucky pouts, petulant to the last, and Steve laughs softly, his breath blowing over the oversensitive tip of his cock and making him squirm even more.

But it’s Steve’s turn to moan when he pulls Bucky’s underwear down and out of the way, murmuring about how pretty it is, how pretty Bucky is, and slips a hand under Bucky’s ass -- Bucky smirks up at the ceiling while drawing his knees up, and half a second later Steve’s cursing a blue streak.

“Language,” he chides, and Steve doesn’t even seem to care, just stares up at him like something holy, quite the dissonance with what they’re currently doing.

“Babydoll--” Steve breathes, eyes wide. Bucky chews his bottom lip and eyes the bottle of lube guiltily.

“I was feeling optimistic,” he whispers, and Steve groans and drops his head, swallowing Bucky almost to the root in one go -- Bucky yelps and tangles his fingers in Steve’s hair, his feet resting on Steve’s biceps as Steve sucks him like he’s trying to suck his goddamn soul out of his body -- it might work, Bucky thinks deliriously, if he keeps going at it like that -- and his fingers rock inside Bucky with a fervor that’s unmatched in Bucky’s, admittedly, limited experience. 

“After I fuck you,” Steve says with a gasp, pulling off his cock with his cheeks flushed and eyes glassy, still thrusting his fingers into Bucky with a speed that doesn’t promise to relent. “I’m gonna eat you out, get you all wet, get you dripping, and then I’m gonna fuck you again to make up for lost time. How’s that sound?”

“Oooh-kay,” Bucky huffs, nodding, gasping when Steve brushes his prostate just right, “I’m not gonna fight you on that.”

Steve laughs, and Bucky laughs too, and they’re still laughing when Steve comes up to hover over him again, balancing his weight on his elbows. 

“I love you,” Bucky says, sliding his foot down Steve’s leg while opening his own legs up further to cradle Steve’s hips. “You know that, right?”

“Sometimes it feels like the only thing worth knowin’,” Steve whispers like it’s a confession, his eyes roving over Bucky’s face like he’s a starving man at a feast, and Bucky swallows hard. 

A few seconds later, Steve pushes into him, toobigtoomuch for just a few seconds, and then Steve kisses him, and Bucky relaxes around it, lets Steve in, and it feels like coming home.

For all the plans of seduction Bucky had going into this, plans that were briefly formed from lust, he remembers  _ why  _ he’d wanted it so much in the first place -- and it’s not for the sparks that fly up his spine when Steve’s cock brushes against his prostate with the unerring skill he’s always displayed, it’s not for the feel of Steve’s callouses as he grips Bucky’s cock and strokes in time with his powerful but careful thrusts, it’s not for the way Steve falls apart, his perfect lips parted in near-surprise even as he’s making Bucky fall just as much -- it’s just Steve that he’d wanted, after all. 

Just having Steve, and holding Steve in his body, in himself, for a brief moment of time, knowing that of all the people in the world, he’s the person Steve’s chosen as a safe harbor -- knowing that Bucky's chosen precisely the same thing. 

The choice costs more than it used to, the hurts not quite scars but not quite healed either, but Bucky lets them go even as he lets Steve in, and Steve’s lips are gentle as they wipe away the tears that track into Bucky’s hairline. He lets Bucky kiss his tears away, and when Bucky comes, static-hot and blinding, he gasps into Steve’s mouth, and Steve whispers “ _ I got you, Buck, _ ” and he can’t seem to summon any reason to doubt the unequivocal truth of that statement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, like, maybe I saw Endgame, and, like, maybe I sped up the timeline of them having sex again, for, like, personal reasons.
> 
>  
> 
> Idk.
> 
>  
> 
> I hope you enjoyed???? 
> 
> Next chapter is called:
> 
> "Field Trip" and it's Steve's POV
> 
> (Let me know if you want me to finish this sex scene from Steve's POV because Steve wasn't kidding at all in the plan he shared with Bucky vis a vis round two, cough)


	9. End of Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve very much enjoys the end of summer with Bucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Notes_  
>  What's this??
> 
> ... **all** smut and fluff? nothing else? 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Warnings**
> 
>  
> 
> Bucky asks Steve to be rougher than he has been during sex
> 
> Lots of explicit sex including rimjob/blowjob/anal sex
> 
> Technically unprotected sex, but Steve/Bucky are in a committed relationship, and neither can get STIs, and they've established prior to this that they don't want to use condoms, but just wanted to remind you.
> 
> Bossy Steve makes a brief appearance
> 
> Enthusiastic consent is involved, but even Steve acknowledges in his POV that they need to sit down and have a chat about kinky things in the future, so he doesn't go too full dom!Steve here

Everything is near-drowsy and perfect, and Steve never wants it to stop.

Bucky’s already come, so pretty and sweet for him, a gasp of Steve’s name into his mouth, and Steve only lasts a few seconds more before it becomes too much, and he spills with a groan inside Bucky.

Then, as promised, he falls to his knees between Bucky’s legs, pushes his knees up towards his chest, and dives in. Steve thrills in the punched-out gasp it elicits from Bucky when he unfurls his tongue around the tender, slightly swollen flesh, Steve’s fingers digging into the globes of Bucky’s perfect, beautiful ass as he starts to suck and lick at him.

Bucky’s squirming, and Steve just smirk to himself in response to his feeble protests -- Bucky would most definitely prefer showering between fucking and Steve eating his ass, but what Bucky doesn’t realize is that Steve _loves_ this, loves the real, actual taste of Bucky, only a hint of soap from this morning, and the thick cum that’s collected inside of him, that _Steve_ got to put there.

“Steve,” Bucky’s panting and writhing, and Steve pushes his tongue in the tight ring of muscle, and Bucky’s breath hitches into a full whine. “ _Steve_!”

“You taste so good,” Steve moans, only slightly for effect, “Fuck, sugar, you’re so good --” Bucky keens when Steve trades his tongue for fingers, pushing up against his prostate relentlessly (he spends a few seconds marveling at the red marks left behind by the friction caused by his beard), and without letting Bucky move his legs, Steve maneuvers into a more kneeling position to suck Bucky’s cock into his mouth again.

He can’t quite remember the last time he took a full breath, but Bucky threads his fingers through his hair, and the sharp prickle of pleasure-pain at Steve’s scalp is better than air, so he continues doggedly thrusting his fingers into Bucky -- when he comes less than a minute later with a bellow that sounds almost like pain, Steve smirks and swallows it down, pulling away to wipe at his mouth.

Bucky’s still hard.

He stares down at his cock in almost betrayal, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy and wide. “Wha--”

“Serum,” Steve says, gesturing at his own hard cock. “It’s a plus or a negative, depending on your perspective.”

Bucky nods like he’s still piecing it together, nods and looks at Steve’s cock with those over-bright eyes, and his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. Steve’s brain returns to its single-tracked glory at the sight, and Bucky grabs at him.

“You promised to fuck me again,” Bucky breathes, and Steve nods, hopeless and desperate to give Bucky what he wants, whatever he wants; he’s missed him so badly, missed this, missed the closeness, and now they can have it again. He won’t fuck it up again. He won’t. He can’t.

“How do you want me, babydoll?” Steve croons, sliding his open mouth against the heated flesh of Bucky’s hip, his side, his chest - he drags his tongue over one light brown nipple, smirking at the wiggle of Bucky’s hips that answers it - and up to Bucky’s neck, where he sucks lightly at the thin skin of his throat.

“Want you to _fuck_ me,” Bucky says, and Steve pulls back to smile at him fondly and stroke some of the sweaty strands of hair out of his face. Bucky’s pupils are totally blown, and Steve’s sure his aren’t much better; fuck, he loves him, and every molecule of his enhanced body is on the same page.

“That’s the plan, sweetheart,” Steve snorts, leaning down to nuzzle and then nip at Bucky’s jaw. Bucky whines and digs his fingers into Steve’s shoulder. “But how do you want me to fuck you?”

“ _Fuck_ me,” Bucky demands with the same circular logic as before, and Steve almost giggles at it, until Bucky almost snarls and pokes at his arm. “I want you to put me on my hands and knees and fuck my ass so hard I can’t walk straight for days, want you to make me yours, want --” Bucky shakes his head and bites at Steve’s bicep while Steve pulls back to look at him carefully.

He’s harder than he can realistically recall being, except for maybe the first time he and Bucky fooled around, but still, that sounds...intense.

“Are you sure?” Steve asks, the question sounding heavy even to him. “Because, babydoll, I don’t wanna hurt you--”

“You won’t,” Bucky shakes his head frantically and cants his hips upwards until Steve pushes down and meets him in the middle. “I won’t break, I swear, I want you so badly, c’mon, fuck me--”

“Want me to make you mine?” Steve growls, sinking into the lust building in his gut, his eyes devouring Bucky as he lies there in his bed, his pretty lingerie setting so nicely against his sweaty, glowing skin.

“Want it,” Bucky confirms, nodding now, trying to flip over already. “C’mon, I can take it, wanna - want you to--”

Steve relents and kisses Bucky filthily, both of them moaning as the surrender brings Steve’s cock up against Bucky’s, and they roll their hips together for a few seconds, the slide eased by the lingering lube and streaks of cum on Bucky. They’ll need to shower after this, the part of Steve still capable of reason points out, but they can also continue what they’re doing in the shower, and wouldn’t that be nice?

With one last kiss and whisper of, _yeah?_ Steve gets Bucky onto his stomach, but he doesn’t spread his pretty ass and fuck him the way part of him wants to - the way Bucky wants him to, if the way he starts to beg and plead is any indication.

No, Steve has other plans -- he kisses between Bucky’s shoulder blades and whispers, “Let me take care of you,” the way he had earlier, and Bucky melts slightly with a nod.

He runs his hands up and down Bucky’s back, avoiding the scar tissue as much as he can without ignoring it because the last thing he wants is for Bucky to assume that he doesn’t find all of him attractive. Steve finds knots under the skin here and there, tension in Bucky’s muscles that he works at with patient hands, suddenly grateful for the odd massage lesson Nat made him attend with her last year.

(Clint apparently needs a lot of deep muscle massages as a result of his inborn clumsiness, but then again, Steve really doesn’t want to think about Clint Barton right now)

“I am going to fuck you,” Steve says calmly, his heart in his throat, but his voice not giving anything away. Bucky moans into the pillows in response. Steve runs an admiring hand along the silk of Bucky’s lingerie, pushing the hem up to show his pretty ass off a little more. He moves on to massaging the muscle there, and Bucky starts to fuck into the bedsheets, whimpering slightly at the obvious need for more.

“Poor little thing; do you need me to fuck you? Is that what you want?” Steve clarifies, his thumb sliding along the crease between Bucky’s ass and thigh. “Do you want my cock? Want me to split you open and fuck you senseless, babydoll?”

Bucky huffs and looks over his shoulder with a scowl. “Want you to do anything at this point,” he grumbles, and Steve laughs fondly at the look on his face.

“Pass me the lube,” he says with a roll of his eyes, and as Bucky gets up on his hands and knees, shaky, to grab the bottle from the bedside table, Steve leans down and bites gently at the globe of Bucky’s ass.

“Mother _fucker_ \--”

“Hmm?” Steve blinks up at him, the picture of innocence, and Bucky glowers but then snorts and chucks the bottle at him. When he stays on his hands and knees, Steve tuts and places a firm hand on the small of his back and pushes. Bucky complies and lies down on his belly, and he looks over his shoulder again at Steve, who calmly pours some lube onto his fingers and slicks them up, warming the lube so it won’t be uncomfortable.

“Is this okay?” Steve asks gently, looking Bucky in the eyes; to his credit, Bucky thinks for a second before nodding and lifting his ass slightly, wagging it in a way that’s somehow adorable and sexy.

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs happily, and then he sighs more deeply as Steve pushes his fingers back into his body, getting him ready for the third round. “Oh, _yes._ ”

“I’m going to fuck you,” Steve warns fairly, grabbing his cock and slicking it up as well. He leaves the lube close at hand just in case. “And you want me to fuck you hard?”

“Nngh -- mhm,” he can see Bucky nodding into the pillow, and he realizes he can’t wait to do this again later, maybe after talking it through more, see what limits and interests Bucky really has -- a picture of Bucky smiling up at him and whispering _yes, sir_ comes to mind _,_ and Steve shudders at the thought before shaking his head to clear it.

One dream at a time, and Bucky’s already letting him back in enough for _this,_ and that makes Steve the luckiest, most undeserving bastard in the world.

“Alright,” Steve soothes a hand down Bucky’s back and then grabs his cock to line it up with Bucky’s hole, which is as wet as Steve promised earlier; he grips the left cheek of Bucky’s ass and strokes at the firm flesh with his thumb while Bucky moans obscenely. With one smooth, sure push, Steve slips in and thrusts shallowly, reveling in the hot, tight grip of Bucky’s body, twisting his hips in a way that has Bucky hissing swear words under his breath.

He pulls out, and Bucky honest-to-God yelps in protest, but when he hauls him up on his hands and knees, Bucky nods frantically.

“Yes,” he looks over his shoulder with wide eyes. “Oh, fuck, yes --”

“Ready?” Steve asks gently, reaching up to grab Bucky’s chin, neither of them seeming to care that Steve’s fingers are stained with lube and come.

“So _ooo_ ready,” Bucky enthuses, and he turns away to brace his hands against the mattress. “C’mon, Steve, while some of us are still young-- _guh_.”

Steve pushes in again, a little more relentless in his pace this time, and, gripping Bucky’s hips tightly in his hands, he thrusts deeply on the third stroke, his balls slapping against Bucky’s; the pace doesn’t stop after that, and Steve grunts in a way that should embarrass him, but it doesn’t, as Bucky throws his head back and nearly howls when Steve finds his prostate and starts to nail it with specific, almost cruel twists of his hips on every other thrust.

“F-f-f-uuuck,” Bucky whimpers, slapping a hand to the headboard and gripping it tight enough the wood cracks. “Oh, _shit,_ ” Bucky mutters, not out of lust that time, and Steve looks at the headboard in outright wonderment. His pace falters slightly, until Bucky turns around with a devilish smirk. “Told you I wasn’t breakable,” he teases, and then the jerk goes and _squeezes_ around Steve’s cock.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Steve barks out, gripping Bucky’s hips even tighter.

“Language, Captain,” Bucky pretends to chastise, as he drops his head down, his hair tumbling prettily around his shoulders. Steve wants to try this again later, where he can see Bucky’s face this time, but for now he satisfies himself with fucking him harder and faster than before.

When he feels his orgasm building -- and it feels different than before, pins and needles here and there like a limb coming back to life -- he grunts and shakes his head, not shifting in his pace.

“Touch yourself,” he begs Bucky, realizing a half second too late that his voice, as hoarse and gruff as it is, transformed by lust, makes the request sound like an order.

It doesn’t matter. Bucky clenches around him seemingly involuntarily with a massive groan, and he rests his weight on his right elbow, his head now nearly touching the comforter, his ass still up in the air, held up by Steve’s hands. He starts to jerk his cock sloppily with his left, and Steve moans at the same time he does.

“Come for me, baby,” Steve pleads. “Please, please let me feel you come again--want you to come--”

“I’m coming,” Bucky gasps, “Already - was gonna -- oh fuck, _Stevie_ ,” he wails brokenly on Steve’s name, and everything is whitehot, everything is slowing down and speeding up, and everything is Bucky.

They lie there for a few minutes, Steve only just barely angling his body so he doesn’t crush Bucky after he collapses; Steve has an arm wrapped around Bucky, and they stare at each other, slightly out of breath, the candlelight casting strange, fascinating shadows on the wall.

“Fuck,” Bucky swallows and shakes his head, his eyes wide as he stares up at the ceiling.

“You can say that again,” Steve mumbles, sliding his fingers up and down Bucky’s arm.

“ _Fuck._ ”

“Mhm.”

“I need to shower,” Bucky says, shaking his head as he looks briefly down at them. “And you’re going to carry me there.”

“Deal.” Steve closes his eyes and leans more into Bucky’s side. “But gimme a few minutes. I think part of my brain fell out.”

“Just now, or like, eighty years ago?” Bucky asks, and Steve snorts before pressing a kiss into his bare shoulder.

“Jerk.”

“I’m your jerk.”

“Damn straight.” Steve smiles in the half-darkness and closes his eyes in total contentment.

***

“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” Steve mutters, crouching down behind a bush.

Clint squints at him and points at his hearing aid, shaking his head. He’s hiding behind a large oak tree.

Steve rolls his eyes but switches to ASL. [This is _not_ a good idea,] he repeats, emphasizing _not_ with a terrible face.

“It’s a great idea,” Clint mutters. He holds up a compact mirror and angles it so he can see over his shoulder. “We’ve got incoming.”

“I’m with Steve on this one.” Sam isn’t even bothering to hide, just shaking his head and leaning up against a wall, facing the street. He ignores Clint’s frantic hand signals to hide. “Hell no. I’m a full grown man. I am _not_ playing a game of Hide and Seek with you, Barton.”

“He’s here!” Clint peeks out from behind the tree and leans down to grab one end of the banner. “C’mon, Steve.”

“I maintain this is a terrible idea,” Steve hisses, grabbing the other end and rising up from behind the bush.

“ _Hey,_ yo! Barnes!” Clint hollers, shaking the banner wildly. “Bucky Barnes!”

Across the street, Bucky freezes, one hand on his messenger bag.

Steve’s breath catches in his throat, even though he saw Bucky literally two days ago: his hair is artfully tousled, and he’s wearing a burgundy dress shirt tucked into well-fitting grey slacks. While his weight loss is troublesome -- he patently refuses to drink the protein shakes Tony keeps sending over, and he _really_ refuses to join Steve on any kind of workout, so his muscle tone isn’t what it used to be -- and the circles have never quite left their place under his eyes, and a shadow of something still lingers over him, Bucky still manages to be the most beautiful person Steve’s ever seen.

And he’s looking over at them like they’re absolutely crazy.

“Happy first day of school!” Clint screams, completely oblivious to the look of disbelief on Bucky’s face -- or, more realistically, choosing to ignore it. “We love you!”

Bucky raises a hand and waves at them, eyeing the handmade banner that proclaims: “ _James Barnes is the Greatest Teacher Ever_!” that Steve had begrudgingly painted at Clint’s request (AKA he’d shown up at Steve’s apartment and flicked him in the ear repeatedly until Steve relented).

Students are streaming along the sidewalk with them, several stopping to gawk at three superheroes who are standing across the street from their school; when one lifts a phone, ostensibly to snap a picture, Bucky points at them without looking.

“Don’t do that.” He smirks and shakes his head at Steve, who’s pretty sure his face is the same color as the fire hydrant he’s standing behind by now.

“Yes, sir.” The kid nods and pockets their phone before blinking and waving excitedly. “Falcon?! I love you!”

“It’s always nice to meet a fan,” Sam shouts back, and then he points to the sign. “I didn’t do this,” he calls out to Bucky. “Steve and Clint did.”

“I--”

“We love you more than Sam does!” Clint shouts, over Steve’s protest.

“Jokes on both of you,” Bucky calls -- he looks over his shoulder at the school building before snorting and shaking his head. “I love Sam the most.”

Sam hoots with laughter and claps Clint on the shoulder, while the archer pretends to collapse in a heap of melodrama. Steve laughs, full and warm and real, shaking his head at Bucky, who lifts his hand in the sign for _I love you._

He copies the gesture, and Bucky’s a pretty shade of pink before he waves one last time and heads into the school.

They fold up the banner and put it on the back of Clint’s truck before they all pile in. Steve’s phone buzzes twice as they pull away from the curb and head into traffic, and Steve’s grinning before he even reads the messages.

[Bucky, 7:35 a.m.]: _I love you the most._

[Bucky, 7:35 a.m.]: ** _Til the end of the line._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So?!?!?!
> 
>  
> 
> What do you think?? How kinky should our boys get? Do we like the idea of bossy Steve (which was hinted at way back in Ch. 1 of What's Left of Kisses)? 
> 
>  
> 
> (Next chapter is actually "Field Day," and it's Bucky POV. there's a bit of #plot in that one, but not as much #angstplot like in What's Left of Kisses, because, like I said, I really, really need some Stucky sweetness after Endgame)


	10. Field Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky takes his students on a field trip on a normal day in October.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!!!
> 
> This chapter shows a hint of plot starting up again (oops)
> 
>  
> 
>  **Warnings**  
>  Bucky has terrible anxiety // suggestion of an anxiety attack
> 
> Comic book violence 
> 
> Children in danger (no child is hurt, though)
> 
> (No tricks this time, though - the chapter ends without anyone in imminent danger)

The alarm clock blares out into the still-dark room on a dreary October morning, and Bucky barely even looks up from the floor. He’s been awake for over half an hour, stirred out of a nightmare that gripped him by the throat and still hadn’t quite let go.

He reaches out without looking and smacks the off button, wincing when he feels the plastic crack under his hand. It’s been an adjustment he’s still catching up on, the strength and the dexterity and the general sensitivity to all kinds of sensory input. Truthfully, the sound of the alarm clock had felt like a hammer to his skull, and Bucky wonders how it can be fair that Steve got the looks and the speed and the strength to help others and general charisma, and all Bucky got was a messed up brain, a tendency to break things, and headaches that matched Wanda’s some days.

It’s not fair to compare the outcomes of his serum to Steve’s, he knows. Steve has spoken at length now about his own struggles with body image and his disconnect from his physical form, and his own belief that he’s breaking the world one thing at a time, but still. Bucky can actually _see_ Steve, can see what he does for the world; Steve’s a hero, whether or not he’s perfect, and Bucky’s just...Bucky. New and improved (if grumpier and more anxious could be counted as an improvement), but Bucky all the same.

Today’s a shit day, and he grips the wall on his walk to the bathroom; he has to physically force himself to turn the shower on, after he sits on the closed toilet lid and contemplates the net benefit and net cost of standing under the water.

He might honestly feel more shitty after a shower -- he could feel ten times better. He has to wait for his hair to dry if he showers (because _of course_ the hair dryer is too loud now, makes his skin prickle and teeth grit), but he also risks his hair being lank and greasy if he doesn’t wash it. Showering takes effort, but he rationally knows it’s just showering.

They have a field trip today, though, and the likelihood of him being photographed by a kid is pretty high, and he doesn’t want to think about the existence of a “Depressed Barnes” meme, not when “Murder Eyes Barnes” was such a popular choice last year, so he drags himself under the spray and tries not to hate himself for this being such a struggle in the first place.

Later, when he’s in his kitchen trying to put some semblance of a lunch together, he unwraps a protein bar and tries to quell the lingering nausea from his nightmare. His heart won’t leave his throat though, and his reflection in the window makes him jump a few times. He can’t call out today as much as he’s thinking about it because there’s already going to be a substitute teacher in his class while he takes his AP Research kids on the damn field trip, and there can’t be a substitute on the field trip he’s sponsoring, but fuck, if the world could just slow down for a few minutes and not make it feel like he’s actively dying, that’d be great.

Bucky pulls his phone out when it’s 6:55 and his anxiety shows no sign of slowing down. He dials a well-used number and forces himself to breathe in through his nose, and out through his mouth (something a therapist once told him helped control CO2 levels in the blood, which had something to do with physically allaying anxiety, something something science something) while he waits for the other end to pick up.

“‘Yello?”

“Hey, Tony, it’s Bucky.”

“Yeah, the phone told me that. Funny little thing called Caller ID -- you might have heard of it? Think it was invented, say, twenty years before you were born?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Bucky leans against the counter and smiles, dragging a hand through his damp hair. “Hey, look, I’m … sorry to bother you, it’s just --”

“The dreams again?”

“Yeah. The dreams again.” Bucky closes his eyes and tilts his head back, trying to even his breathing and fight the urge to just hang up the phone and cut his embarrassing losses. “I know it’s stupid, but-”

“Not stupid at all. Gimme a second, would you?” He can hear Tony rolling on his chair over the phone, probably scooting through his lab, wired on caffeine.

“Did you get any sleep last night?”

“I closed my eyes a few times.”

“I think that’s just called blinking, Tony.”

“Ugh. You and Pepper, I swear.”

“Mhm.” His heartbeat’s already settling, and he knows it has a lot to do with Tony’s refusal to treat him with kid gloves, even when he’s being kind. Bucky hopes Steve isn’t offended that he isn’t always the first person he turns to when he’s having a panic attack, but Steve is … _Steve._ If he thought Bucky was having a bad day, he’d be over here in fifteen seconds flat, offering to carry him to school in his big, beefy arms.

Not that that’s _unappealing,_ per se, it would just be hard to explain to his students. And it would be hard to argue with Steve over the necessity of him going to school today -- Steve would advocate Bucky taking a full day to rest and relax, most likely snuggled up under a blanket with him, and that’s a pretty tough thing to argue with.

Also arguing with Steve, to borrow a phrase from Parks and Recreation, is like arguing with the goddamn sun.

“Alright, Buckaroo.” Bucky forces himself to focus on Tony’s voice and not the thought of Steve’s arms or stupid pretty face. “Our Hydra guest is in his cell. JARIVS, run a check for bugs and report back to us, would you?”

The muted voice of Tony’s beloved AI comes over the call. [ _Very good, sir. There is no evidence of malware or tampered electronics. Mr. Rumlow remains in custody._ ]

“There you go.” He can almost see the way Tony’s hand spreads out as he talks. “Scarface is in custody, and he’s not going anywhere any time soon. He’s fifteen levels below ground, and every one of those guards is vetted by SHIELD, and by SHIELD, I mean Fury and Romanov, one of whom I’d trust and have trusted with my life extensively, and the other one, I mean, hey, it’s a cool eye patch.”

“Thanks, Tony.” Bucky lets out a breath and forces himself to stand up straight. “I know it’s silly, but it helps.”

“If it helps, then it’s not silly. Anytime, Barnes...Well, not _any_ time, Pepper does have boundaries, and she doesn’t like it when I pick up the phone when we’re--”

“Nope!” Bucky makes a face even though Tony can’t see. “That is _not_ something I want to think about.”

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you, when I had to repair Cap’s suite three days ago! Tell me, Buckaroo, how _did_ you manage to break an entire shower?’

“Shoot, wouldya look at the time? Gotta go, Tony, if I’m gonna make it to school!”

Tony snorts at him. “Go on, save the youth or whatever.”

“Or whatever,” Bucky agrees. “Thanks again, Tony.”

“Have a good day at school! Be safe!” There’s only a slight hint of mockery in what’s probably a very genuine wish for Bucky’s safety, and he’s still smiling when he hangs up the phone.

Now to actually get to school.

He pops an Excedrin to combat the migraine he feels building and grabs his messenger bag and peacoat, slipping out the door, down the steps, and into the grey early morning of Brooklyn.

***

“Myers, if you don’t climb down from there in the next five seconds, I’m going to have to climb up there with you!”

“Then what, Mr. Barnes?” Tom peers down at him from the small balcony that’s twenty feet off the ground.

Fuck. How did he even _get_ up there? Bucky has no idea if this kid is enhanced or not, but at least he knows he isn’t Spider-Man.

He thinks.

Tony had suggested otherwise when Bucky asked last week, after Myers had managed to wing a lunch tray at a bully and hit him dead in the forehead, but it’s not like Tony would actually confirm the secret identity of his beloved tiny superhero, _right_?

“Then what?” Bucky drags a hand through his hair and sighs heavily. “Then I’ll call Tony Stark and have you explain why he never has to fund another field trip for our school again!”

It’s not a particularly empty threat; Bucky’s pretty sure he’ll die of mortification if his class gets yelled at by the fucking _Official Avengers_ museum and it gets back to Tony or any of the other Avengers somehow. He would honestly ban field trips for the rest of forever to avoid any future embarrassment.

Tom seems to believe that it’s a real warning, so he starts to climb down, and Bucky dances back and forth on his feet anxiously.

“Careful!” He cautions, hands raised as if he could catch 140 pounds of falling teenaged jackass. To be fair, he probably could. He doesn’t want to test it. “Whoa! Careful!”

“I got it, Mr. Barnes.” Tom lands on his feet with a sigh. Bucky glares at him meaningfully, and Tom ducks his head. “...Sorry.”

“Why did you want to climb up there in the first place?” Bucky asks, staring up at the teetering platform above them.

“To see if I could?”

Bucky squints at him and shakes his head with a sigh. “You bored?” Tom nods. Bucky thinks for a second, lips pursed, and then holds out his clipboard. Tom takes it with a lifted eyebrow. “Want to do me a huge favor?”

“Sure?”

“Elisa is sick, and I’ve been walking around and taking notes on the questions she wanted answered. Can you do that for me, so I can make sure no one else is trying to actively destroy property or themselves?”

“Sure, Mr. Barnes.” Tom pulls a pen out of his pocket and studies Elisa’s notes, his cheeks faintly pink.

“You can even FaceTime her, if you want,” Bucky suggests with a wry smile. “Then she can even see parts of the exhibit?”

“Yeah!” Tom smiles now, a real smile, and Bucky dismisses him with a wave.

“Be careful,” Bucky warns. “We’ve only got an hour left in here.” With a nod of acknowledgement, Tom rushes off to the east wing of the museum to take notes on the origins of SHIELD.

So, maybe Bucky’s noticed that Tom has a crush on Elisa. So _maybe_ he thinks Tom will focus a little more if he can help another person, and one he has a crush on to boot. _Maybe_ that makes Bucky one step closer to becoming a villainous mastermind.

Snorting, Bucky heads towards the top of the exhibit, one with a familiar shield on display, right in the middle of the main hallway.

It’s a copy of Howard Stark’s prototype, but this one was composed of adamantium in the 70s, and not of specialized vibranium like the original. It would still pack a hell of a punch, but it’s not as indestructible or terrifyingly destructive as Steve’s shield. Still, it’s a marvel to look at, and the life size cutout of Captain America that looms behind it isn’t half bad either, and Bucky admires the display for a long time in the soft lights of the museum.

He feels a tug of nostalgia at his gut; he’d met Steve in a museum on a field trip, and here he is in a museum dedicated to Steve and his friends, almost a full year later. His life has changed irrevocably since he’d stumbled across a grieving superhero in the Howling Commandos’ exhibit - he’s welcome to reach into his pocket at any moment and text the man who’d started all of this in 1943.

So, he does.

Bucky turns his back on the shield and holds his phone up to snap a quick selfie. He pointedly ignores the shadows hanging under his eyes, the way his cheekbones stand out, and tells himself that at least his hair looks good, fluffy and full and to his shoulders now, the front part clipped back so it’s half-up.

 _Wish the real thing was here,_ he types, and sends the photo with the message. He doesn’t even have to wait a full thirty seconds before he has a response.

[Steve, 1:35 pm]: _I miss you, babydoll_.

[Steve, 1:35 pm]: _How’s my museum?_

[Me, 1:36 pm]: _Don’t let Tony hear you say that._

[Me, 1:36 pm]: _It’s pretty great. The kids are learning a lot, and a few of them want to do their next paper on the transparency of the Intelligence Community and the sacrifice of Black Widow’s personal history to expose Project Insight._

[Steve, 1:36 pm]: _She’s the best of us._

[Steve, 1:36 pm]: _She wants to know if we can all get dinner soon. And I want to know if I can see you tonight?_

Bucky doesn’t get a chance to respond, or even quell the small tremor of anxiety that still rises in him at the thought of spending time with Natasha -- logically, he knows she regrets her part in his involuntary containment at the start of summer, and he knows she’s loyal and smart and a good person to have on his side, but he also can’t control the way his heart rate accelerates unpleasantly at the sight of her sometimes -- because a few of his students come around the corner and make a beeline for him.

“Mr. Barnes,” Stefani giggles and nudges Shana, who’s trying and failing to keep a straight face. “...Would you tell us something about Captain Rogers?”

Bucky thinks about that loaded question for five long seconds. He fixes the girls with a close approximation of Murder Eyes and says, “...Sure.”

Shana and Stefani then elbow each other viciously, clearly trying to get the other to ask the question, and Bucky silently asks for strength and hopes that the question isn’t too inappropriate.

“Does Captain Rogers ever…” Shana giggles halfway through her question, and Bucky can feel his face heating up.

There’s almost _no good way_ that question can end.

“Girl, get it together! Ugh!” Stefani rolls her eyes and asks the question for both of them. “Does Captain Rogers ever go on twitter?’

“Uh…” _Okay, that actually isn’t so bad._ “Yeah, actually, St -- _Captain Rogers_ loves twitter. Memes, too.”

They both erupt into near hysterical laughter, their faces barely recovering from the shock of hearing their History teacher almost call a national icon by the first name. Bucky’s ready to end this entire conversation because the last thing he should be talking about is his dating life, but then it gets a whole lot worse:

“...Does he ever check his mentions?”

“Yeah?” Bucky shrugs with his right shoulder, frowning when Shana shrieks and sinks into Stefani’s side. “...How else would he respond to people?”

“Oh my God.” Shana covers her eyes with her hand. “Oh my _God._ ”

“Is it that shocking that Captain Rogers knows how to use social media?” Bucky asks dubiously as Stefani starts to fan Shana with her hand.

“No, Mr. Barnes,” Stefani giggles. “Shana’s just embarrassed because --”

“--¡ _Cállate!_ \--”

“--Now she knows Captain Rogers can see her thirst tweets!”

Bucky stares at the girls in horror as they both dissolve into shrieks of laughter; he pinches the bridge of his nose with a heavy, drawn-out sigh.

“Please _never_ say the phrase ‘thirst tweets’ to me, like, ever again?” He tries to sound firm, but mostly he’s actively trying to not sink into the floor in embarrassment. “And also, please never tell me what those tweets say?”

“Yes, Mr. Barnes,” Stefani and Shana chorus with matching evil grins, and Bucky covers his eyes with his hands.

“Go learn something,” he mumbles, waving a hand away from the display, and the girls rush off, pushing each other.

He pulls his phone out again to respond to Steve’s last text.

[Me, 1:41 pm]: _1\. Yes to dinner, yes to seeing you tonight. 2. Two of my students have apparently been tweeting inappropriate things at you, so I’m sorry._

[Steve, 1:42 pm]: _Thirst tweets?_

[Me, 1:42 pm]: _I don’t even want to know how you know that phrase._

[Steve 1:42 pm]: _I’m hip. I know things._

Twenty minutes later, Bucky’s still trying to get over the shock of Steve Rogers knowing what thirst tweets are (and he hates himself for briefly dipping into Steve’s mentions on twitter, and discovering a shocking number of thirst tweets -- 40 year old mothers commenting on his boyfriend’s thighs is definitely something he’d be fine forgetting), as his class gathers in the main hall. Bucky counts the students milling around him -- he barks at them to stand still a few times, and they freeze obnoxiously in ludicrous poses -- and he’s satisfied that all eighteen showed up when they were supposed to.

Even Tom Myers was on time, and judging by the way he’s hunched over his phone, grinning from ear to ear, he’s still talking to Elisa.

His phone dings, and Bucky flips to his Outlook app.

“Bus is here!” He declares. “Line up in front of me!”

There’s some pushing and shoving because Bucky usually makes lollygaggers recite random facts about a time period in history (“ _if you waste our time, we’ll just have to study time to make up for it_ ”), but they make a haphazard line that extends down the main hall.

Bucky turns to wave at the docents and thank them, but all hell breaks loose.

Something - _multiple_ somethings crash through the windows of the museum and hiss ominously as they rise up onto their legs.

What the actual _fuck._

“Get behind me,” Bucky snaps, and his students scramble, most of them screaming. His heart’s in his throat, but through his baseline of fear, he feels a strange clarity taking over.

Thirteen somethings -- robots, made to look like lizard, with claws that reach out and click, ferocious mouths that Bucky doesn’t want anywhere near himself or his students. Main exit, blocked. Side exits, quickly blocked. Sirens wailing overhead. Civilians running for cover on the street.

A canister soars through the air towards them, right as Bucky’s kids rush to the back of the hall.

“Get down,” he shouts, and then he makes the completely stupid mistake of catching the canister before it can hit the ground.

 _Click, click, click_ \- the robots all stare at him, and if robots could look surprised, they would.

“Shit!” He lobs the canister back, right where the robots are concentrated, and then it detonates.

Robot lizard disappear behind a cloud of smoke, and the screaming behind him intensifies. That seems to catch the remaining robots’ attention, and Bucky flaps a hand at his kids.

“Stay down,” he orders them, bouncing back and forth on his feet like he’s on the starter screen of Street Fighter. “Oh, shit, shit, _shit_ \--”

A thought occurs to him as the first robot dives forward - he reaches out on instinct and catches it around the throat. He and the robot lock eyes, both of them surprised, and then he heaves, hard, and the robot goes flying back, scattering a few more of the advancing party like bowling pins.

“JARVIS!” Bucky calls out desperately, looking around for something to use as a weapon. “Call Steve! Put it on speaker!”

He feels his phone vibrate in the front pocket of his jacket, and prays that Steve will pick up. Eyeing the still-advancing crowd of robo-lizards, Bucky swallows hard and hopes for a miracle. The phone stops vibrating in his pocket, and he can hear a distant, tinny _Buck?,_ but --

One robot gets close enough to wrap its claws around his wrist, and it twists it backwards, hard, pulling him forward. Bucky cries out in pain, and he swears he can _feel_ Steve shouting in alarm.

“We’re under attack,” he shouts, cursing as he kicks out at the robot. “Like, robot lizard things? At the Avengers Museum--” His foot connects with the robot that has a grip on him, and he pushes out, hard. It’s enough to knock the thing off-balance, and Bucky frees himself with a grunt of pain.

 _“We’ll be right there, hang in there, Buck--_ ”

The next swing from a robot connects with Bucky’s chest, and he feels the phone snap at the same time the breath leaves his body.

“Mr. Barnes!” He hears someone running up behind him, and Bucky holds a hand out behind him.

“Tom Myers, if you don’t stay back, I will put you in detention for a month!”

“Tom, get back here!” Christophe shouts, and there’s a small tussle behind him, but Bucky can’t focus on it at the moment.

He has to keep an eye on the periphery, at the robots that are trying to sneak around, and the last thing he wants is to let them get past him and towards his doubtlessly terrified students. There’s not a single thing he can do, and he takes another step back, eyeing the counter where the docents hid, wondering if he can fit all of his students back there.

Another step back and --

He bumps into something.

It’s the display case, and the large cutout of Captain America is standing there, a full, proud, American smirk on a stupidly handsome face, hands on hips, and a thought occurs to Bucky.

“Please remember that stealing is bad,” Bucky shouts at his students, who are crouched down behind the display, holding onto each other, some of them holding their phones up. “And put your phones away!”

A few listen, and Bucky seethes for a few seconds because this is _definitely_ going to end up on the internet.

“No phones!” He shouts, and a robot hits him in the back. The kids scream, some of the phones clattering to the ground, and Bucky grits his teeth. “Oh, _forget_ it!”

He makes a fist and slams it against the glass display case; shockingly, it cracks and splinters on the first try. He hits it again, right where the crack formed, and the glass gives away entirely, a new alarm adding onto the already deafening cacophony from the initial break-in.

Bucky reaches into the case and grabs the shield, ripping it off the display and hefting it towards him. It’s heavier than it looks, but not as heavy as Steve’s shield (which he jokingly swings around sometimes when Steve isn’t looking). The same robot that just hit him grabs his hip and tries to tug him around, and Bucky grips the shield by the edge and spins, slamming it into the robot’s head.

It goes down like a ton of bricks, sparks spitting up and the hissing growing increasingly shrill before ceasing entirely.

One down. Twelve to go.

“Alright,” Bucky mutters. “Which one of you ugly fuckers is next?”

A few rush at him from the right, and Bucky shrugs. “Okay. You’re next.”

He dodges the first swipe by leaning back, and surges forward again to slam the shield into the robot’s chest, kicking viciously at the one coming up on the side. He takes a blow to the head before he dislodges the shield from the first robot, slams it into the next one’s head, and shoves it through the neck joint of the third. Its head rolls off with a sickening pop, and Bucky doesn’t even stop to look at it.

He assesses the battle without thinking much of it, relying on instinct and the few strange acrobatic tricks Clint’s been showing him; at one point, he flips over a fallen robot and kicks another one in the head, spinning on the landing and cutting the robot off at the feet, heaving the shield into its spine until the lights in its eyes go out.

“Holy shit, Mr. Barnes!” One of his students shouts at him, and he blows some hair out of his eyes as he stands shakily.

“Language!” He shouts back. “Swear jar!”

Another couple robots fall under the shield. One last survey of the hall shows him the path is clear for now, and he gestures at his class.

“Move, quickly, to the bus,” he barks, and the students scramble to their feet, sprinting for the exit. Bucky runs alongside them, his eyes sweeping over the exits, the street, the sides of the hall.

They get out of the museum and onto the bus -- the driver looking shocked, but thankfully, they hadn’t recovered enough to drive off without his class -- while Bucky continues to survey the surrounding area.

There’s an ominous rattle to his left on the street, and Bucky looks over in horror as a manhole cover rumbles and then shoots upward, four more robo-lizards scrambling up onto the sidewalk to face him.

“I’m guessing you guys aren’t the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, huh?” Bucky asks weakly. In response, more robo-lizards pour out of the sewers.

Then, an actual armored tank roars down the Manhattan street, headed right for the school bus full of his kids.

This is literally a stress dream. This is a nightmare. He never woke up this morning. Nope. This isn’t happening.

The armored tank shows no sign of stopping, and Bucky doesn’t think, just rushes forward and slams his shoulder into the side of the bus.

It lurches away, but not fast enough, and Bucky studies the street, cursing vividly under his breath, before pushing again with both hands. This time, the bus flies away from the curb -- all of his kids pressed up against the glass, eyes wide as they stare down at him -- right as the tank rolls up in front of the museum.

“MYERS!” Bucky roars, jabbing a finger at the bus windows. “I said _no phones_!”

The top of the tank pops open, and of course it isn’t an ally, it’s more goddamn lizard-robot-men. Bucky sets the shield up higher on his arm and grits his teeth.

“This is why I don’t live in Manhattan,” he snaps to no one in particular as he blocks the first attack. “A whole bunch of fakakta nonsense, that’s why--” A robot gets him in the ribs, and he’s wondering what the hell it is they want, considering lizard-robot-men aren’t exactly Hydra’s style, when there’s a soaring sound overhead. Three robots go down as beams of light strike them dead-center.

“Buckaroo, if you wanted to play, all you had to do was ask!” Iron Man clatters to a halt on the sidewalk at Bucky’s side and starts to knock the rest of the hostiles back.

“Hey, Tony,” Bucky’s never been so relieved to see someone in his life. “Where’s--”

Two robots go down out of nowhere, arrows through their orbital units. Bucky squints up at the rooftops and sees Clint throwing him a salute.

“Cap’s on his way. He’s in quite a mood, so, you’ve been warned.”

“What kind of a mood would that be?”

There’s the sound of metal being ripped apart, and Bucky turns, shield still up for protection, to see a one man wrecking ball roaring through the crowd of robots.

“Uhhh...that kind of mood.”

“ _Is that the Hulk?_ ” A kid on the bus shouts.

It isn’t the Hulk.

Steve’s tearing through the robots like they’re made of tissue paper, his shield flying constantly in dizzying arcs, moving so quickly Bucky has problems tracking it.

“Buck!” He shouts when he finally gets eyes on Bucky; his eyes land on the borrowed shield a second later. Steve’s lips quirk up in a confused, delighted smile, but a half dozen robot-lizards dogpile him, and he vanishes from sight.

Bucky shouts in alarm, running forward and diving into the melee. He swings the shield as quickly as he can, desperate to pull Steve out of it, and soon, the pile is cleared.

“Are you okay?” Steve asks, his hand trembling slightly as it reaches up to cup Bucky’s jaw.

“Never better,” Bucky mutters. A movement over Steve’s shoulder distracts him. “Duck!”

Steve’s eyes widen but he listens for once in his life and crouches down. Bucky wings his shield hard at the robots creeping up on them, and then jumps over Steve to reclaim his shield and rejoin the fight. He ends up with his back to Steve’s, well aware that he’s under-trained for this fight, but unwilling to leave Steve’s side.

It’s all over when Thor comes hurtling out of the sky, Mjolnir twirling in his hand. He slams it into the ground with no attempt at finesse, sending a bolt of energy that makes Bucky’s hair stand on end, but effectively fries a dozen robots at a time; Tony detonates a contained EMP a second later, and the rest go down in a thirty foot radius around the device. 

Panting, Bucky turns to the bus and waves weakly at his kids. “Are you guys alright?”

He can see them nodding from the sidewalk, and then he bends over and heaves, nauseated beyond belief from the anxiety the combat part of his brain had kept at bay during the fight.

By this time, news crews have arrived, and they’ve started to film the wreckage. Bucky stands and wipes the back of his mouth with his hand shakily; he can sense Steve marching up towards him, no doubt to lecture him on acting stupid and fighting when he should have been seeking shelter like a good civilian.

“Here,” he says, holding the slightly stolen shield out to him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to--”

Steve grabs the shield and tosses it aside. His hands come up to frame Bucky’s face gently, and Bucky licks his dry bottom lip, his stomach twisting at the tenderness and fear twined together in Steve’s expression. His eyes sweep up and down Bucky’s body desperately, no doubt searching for wounds, and his thumb strokes over a sore spot on Bucky’s jaw. Bucky hisses, and Steve’s eyes darken, like he’s raring for a fight.

“You coulda died,” Steve says hoarsely, eyes haunted. “Did you stop and think about --”

“I didn’t,” Bucky points out, “I didn’t, and I’m fine--”

“You coulda _died,_ I coulda - coulda lost you--”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky insists, “But, Stevie, I _had_ to--”

“You _had_ to?”

“Yeah! I couldn’t stand by and watch, not when they were gonna hurt--”

Steve kisses him, hard, and it catches him off-guard for a second to the point that their teeth click together, but he catches on quick enough. One hand’s still cradling Bucky’s jaw as the kiss deepens, and the other wraps around his waist, hauling him in close and almost bending him back with the force of the kiss. Bucky gives as good as he gets, one hand gripping Steve by that stupid (attractive, stupidly attractive) harness he wears in uniform, and the other gripping Steve by the hair, tugging at it in a way that makes Steve moan a little too obscenely for two in the afternoon in front of wide-eyed high schoolers and news cameras--

_News cameras._

Bucky breaks away with a gasp, looking over his shoulder at the Channel 6 News truck, the camera of which is most certainly pointed at them, recording the entirety of their passionate embrace.

“Stevie,” Bucky whispers, but Steve just shakes his head.

“Let ‘em watch,” he mutters, pulling him in to kiss him again, a dizzying, consuming kiss that, when combined with the multiple head injuries Bucky sustained in the last ten minutes, makes it even harder than normal to argue with Steve Rogers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ?!?!?!?!?!
> 
>  
> 
> I can only imagine what the fallout of THAT will be. I think we might be in for .... another Steve Rogers press conference !?
> 
>  
> 
> (can you tell I'm terrible at writing action scenes?)


	11. After the Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve wants to take care of Bucky after his first fight as a super

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helllllooo.
> 
> Here's some sin for your Sunday!
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Warnings**
> 
>  
> 
> Consensual oral/anal sex
> 
> Dirty talk
> 
> Dom!Steve (established safewords, and Steve is...a soft Dom very much in this. Bossy and lots of Praise Kink, zero humiliation and no real pleasure denial)

“Captain Rogers!” There’s a man with a microphone, and he’s shoving it in Steve’s face. Not the most polite way to catch someone’s attention, but he’s used to it by now. “Captain Rogers, are we to believe that this man is your boyfriend?”

“Really?” Steve glowers down at the man, who shrinks slightly at the sight. “We stop a horde of murderous robots, and your first question is about my love life?” 

The poor guy has nothing to say to that.

“I didn’t fucking think so,” Steve snaps. “Now, get the fuck out of my way.” He storms past them to knock on the door of the bus, which opens with a feeble hiss, most of the windows already shattered. “Is everything alright in here?”

A dozen and a half teenagers stare at him for a long moment, and concern curdles in his gut. If Bucky weren’t puking at the moment (he makes a mental note to ask Bruce or Helen to check Bucky out later, to see if something else is wrong -- or, to be fair, maybe something’s wrong with Steve because he thinks there’d be no reason to get sick after a fight like this where no one died), he’d ask him to come check on the kids with him.

One, trembling hand goes in the air, and Steve looks over his shoulder, as if for confirmation, before turning and nodding at the boy, a scrawny little thing who doesn’t look that much different from Steve Rogers circa 1934. “Uh...yes, uh, you?”

“Does Mr. Barnes own a cat?” The kid blinks twice behind large plastic frames, and Steve stares back at him. 

“What?”

“It’s just, he doesn’t tell us a lot about himself--”

“He says it’s good to have some mysteries!” Another kid pipes up, and a few more nod in encouragement.

“--But, we just figured, he probably has a cat, right?” The first kid finishes, and Steve climbs a few more feet onto the bus.

“Are you alright?” He eyes the kid with a frown, wondering if he’s in shock.

“Yes?” The kid frowns and then scoffs. He kneels up on his seat and turns to the kid behind him, a much larger boy with thick black hair. “Can you fucking believe it? Mr. Barnes’s boyfriend doesn’t even know if he has a cat!”

“Hey!” Steve protests. “...Language?”

“Dude.” The little kid shoots him a look of outright scorn, and Steve withers faster than he would in front of Fury or the president. Teenagers. “You just dropped the f-bomb like, ten times out there. We all heard you.”

The taller, stronger boy smirks at him from the seat behind the first, and then another voice pipes up.

“So, it’s a no for the cat, then?”

“No, Bu-- Mr. Barnes doesn’t have a cat.” Steve drags a hand through his hair anxiously and then gestures to the door uselessly. “Does that mean everyone’s okay?”

“I mean, I guess?” A small girl with braids shrugs, her backpack on her lap. She looks around the bus and then nods. “Yeah, we’re fine.”

“Do you want to…” Steve trails off and rubs his neck. “Uh, get off the bus?”

“We good.”

“I’m sure you are.” He huffs a nervous laugh, and none of the kids even blink. “But the bus could …”

“Don’t say explode,” a student in the back groans. “You know it can’t actually explode, right? The bus didn’t even take that much damage.”

“Yeah, not like that tank.” A boy wearing a shirt that says  _ Billabong  _ (is it a band? A place? Steve needs to Google that later) jabs his thumb over his shoulder towards the smoking remains of the robo-lizards’ vehicle. “Mr. Barnes  _ nerfed _ that fucker.”

“Fuck yeah!” Another boy high fives the first one, and Steve has zero idea of what to do or say with eighteen teenagers who really couldn’t give a fuck who he is. They’d seemed so much more...receptive to him, back in the fall.

_ Before you almost got their favorite teacher killed,  _ a mean, little voice reminds him.  _ That might not necessarily endear you to them. Imagine if they knew everything else you did to him. _

“Language!” Bucky’s at the door now, and scowling at the group of students. They all snap to attention faster than any soldier Steve’s ever seen. “Do I need to call home and let Ms. Carol know what you were saying on the school bus, Christophe?”

“No!” Christophe shakes his head, eyes wide with sudden fear. “No, th-that’s fine, Mr. Barnes, really--”

“And you--” Bucky scowls at a kid in the front row, a tall, lanky kid with red hair who slumps down the second Bucky rounds on him. “Did you think I honestly wouldn’t notice one of my students leaning out of the window with his phone in his hand? You’re six feet tall, Myers, anyone could have seen you, including the  _ murder robots _ ! What were you thinking?”

“I did it for the Vine,” Myers protests, and a few kids groan and slap hands to their faces. “C’mon, Mr. Barnes, I bet you’re trending by now!”

Bucky visibly pales, and that seems to alarm Myers more than anything else. Steve reaches out on instinct and steadies Bucky as he sways on the step. 

“Tell me you didn’t upload a video of me to…” Bucky trails off, looking nauseated, and Steve leans into him to give him better support.

Myers has the decency to look anxious at his teacher’s reaction. “Um...”

“It’s okay,” Steve whispers, his own gut clenching in anxiety, even as he wraps an arm around Bucky’s shoulders at the front of the bus. “We can get it taken down, sweetheart, it’ll be okay.”

“There is no taking it down.” Bucky grips the strap of Steve’s harness, swaying on the spot still, deeply grey in the face. “Not from…”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Barnes,” Myers says weakly, and Steve tries not to glare at the child who made a mistake because he’s a kid, after all, and he clearly has no ill intent towards Bucky.

“What if they--” Bucky looks up at him in abject fear, and Steve knows exactly who  _ they  _ are. 

Neither of them is foolish enough to believe Hydra’s lost interest in Bucky - for all Steve knows, today’s attack was orchestrated in an attempt to reclaim Bucky, even though that’s unlikely given that the robots tried to fight him and not abduct him - and any sign of Bucky’s developing powers on the internet could be enough for them to attempt another kidnapping.

“Mr. Barnes?” Another quavering hand in the air, and Bucky doesn’t let go of Steve, but he does stand up taller and take a deep breath, some of the color returning to his face. 

“Yeah, Anya?” 

“...I took a video too.”

“Right.” Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose, and grits his teeth for a few seconds. “How many of you posted this to social media?”

Eighteen hands go up in the air.

“Oy.” Bucky sighs, his cheeks reddening now. “Well, here’s what’s going to happen.” His voice doesn’t rise, but there’s a layer of steel to it that Steve’s never heard before, but judging by the way the students squirm on the seats, the kids have. “You’re going stand up and walk calmly -  _ calmly,  _ Myers -- off this bus. You’re going to go to the paramedics to make sure everything is alright. And then you are going to  _ sit right in front of Iron Man  _  - and you will  _ not  _ ask him for an autograph because you are  _ in trouble  _  - and wait for the SHIELD-approved transport to show up, at which point it will take you back to our school, where your families will pick you up. They have already been notified, so there’s no need to worry if your phones aren’t working yet.”

“What about the videos?” One girl quietly asks. 

Bucky offers her a tight smile. “There isn’t a whole lot to do about the videos, Shana. It is what it is.” He glances around the bus and then lifts an eyebrow. “Didn’t I say you should get off the bus?”

The kids scramble to grab their things, and Steve lurches off the steps to make room for the stream of students heading to the sidewalk.

Bucky stands to the side, his eyes flicking from student to student as they trudge past him to the paramedic station, counting them under his breath. He offers tight smiles and nods when they apologize to him, and they all look increasingly defeated at having hurt their teacher in an unanticipated way. Steve stands at his side, studying his posture and expression for signs of pain or over exhaustion, and when the last kid has been accounted for, Bucky sags noticeably. 

“Babydoll.” 

Steve grips him by the arm, glancing over his shoulder to make sure there aren’t any news cameras pointed at them this time. It was easy enough to ignore them when he was caught up in the moment, and when they were just recording a celebratory kiss, but now, knowing videos of Bucky fighting have most likely gone up into permanent infamy on the internet, he doesn’t want them to have a second of unwilling footage of their relationship. 

“Have a seat,” Steve urges, but Bucky shakes his head. 

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, looking anything but. 

“Buck--”

“I’m fine, Stevie...I think it’s an adrenaline crash, that’s all.” Bucky droops into his side even as he protest, and a thought occurs to Steve. 

He pats down the pockets at the front of his uniform and then slips his hand into one; he emerges with a chocolate-based protein bar, his least favorite flavor (it’s still too sweet for him, but Tony refuses to stop manufacturing the chocolate ones, as he insists they’re the ones that ‘taste least like death’) and unwraps it hastily, unwilling to keep his hands off Bucky for a second longer than he has to.

“Here.” He shoves the bar unceremoniously into Bucky’s hand and nudges it face-ward. “Eat.”

“Not hungry,” Bucky mutters, face flushing. “I threw up, Steve, ‘m not hungry.” He sways again, alarmingly, and Steve grips his wrist and scowls at him.

“You might not feel hunger, but your body needs calories. Trust me on this one -- I’m hungry all the time, true, but babydoll, my body shuts down if I don’t eat after a battle. It’s going to be choosing to eat a bit of this, or it’s going to be me carrying your unconscious body to the paramedic station after you pass out so they can hook you up to an IV.”

“Bully,” Bucky grumbles, reluctantly tearing off a bite of the protein bar. He shoves it in his mouth and chews a few times, grimacing. Steve strokes comforting circles between Bucky’s shoulder blades, and Bucky squeezes his eyes shut. “Think I’m gonna be--”

“It’s okay,” Steve soothes him, “Breathe, sweetheart. Breathe with me, okay?” He breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth demonstratively, and Bucky follows, some more of the color returning to his skin after a few repetitions. “If you need to be sick, that’s okay too. Tony chased the news crews away, and it’s just you and me. It’s okay, sweetheart.”

Bucky keeps breathing steadily and doesn’t answer, but he does take another bite of the protein bar and manages to keep it down. Steve leans in to kiss his temple gently, trying not to inhale too much, or the smell of Bucky’s shampoo combined with the sharp smell of victory and elation that he’s okay might inspire him to sweep his boyfriend off his feet and carry him away, crowds be damned.

“Can I take you home?” Steve murmurs as he pulls away, and Bucky’s eyes flicker with interest. 

“For what, Captain Rogers?” Bucky blinks up at him, his unfairly long eyelashes fluttering, and Steve smirks at him. “Rest and relaxation?”

“Something like that.” 

Something is  _ definitely _ wrong with Steve because he’s suddenly hard as a rock in his combat uniform -- he’s run the gamut on emotions today: absolute terror when he heard Bucky in pain over the phone; deadly focus and determination as he fought his way to Bucky’s side; overwhelming relief when Bucky was okay, combined with fury that Bucky put himself in harm’s way, and pride that he’d fought his way out; embarrassment in front of the students; and now, the absolute, all-encompassing need to have Bucky stretched out underneath him, preferably naked and writhing and gasping as Steve fucked him senseless.

“Oh?” Bucky smirks at him but then shakes his head with a sigh. “I really can’t leave until they’re all picked up. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Steve sighs but relinquishes his hold on Bucky’s arm. “I can wait.”

“Oh, all of a sudden, you learned how to wait?” Bucky’s nose wrinkles as he smiles up at him, and God, Steve wants to kiss him. He really wants to kiss him, wants to do a whole lot more than kiss him, but he has a point, so Steve nods respectfully and takes a step back.

“I can wait for you,” Steve promises, not bothering to hide the way his eyes sweep down Bucky’s frame, this time clearly not intended to check on his health. Bucky’s eyes darken in response. “I need to debrief and help with clean-up anyway.”

“So responsible,” Bucky teases, and Steve quirks an eyebrow at him.

“Does that turn you on?” His voice has more gravel than was intended, but it’s not his fault, not when Bucky’s standing in front of him, not when he knows what it feels like to be buried in his hot, tight --

As though hearing Steve’s thoughts, Bucky blushes furiously and looks around. “Not here,” he hisses, and Steve nods with a small smile. “Later.”

“Later,” Steve promises. “And, if it’s alright with you, I’d like to have a little talk with you later about taking care of yourself.” He looks at Bucky meaningfully, and for a second, his boyfriend opens his mouth to argue before the realization clicks into place. 

“Oh,” he says faintly, his cheeks bright pink. “That’d… that’s alright with me.”

“Excellent.” Steve nods and then gestures at the ambulances behind him. “I’ll see you later, Mr. Barnes.”

“Captain Rogers.” Bucky nods back at him before walking away; Steve gets the benefit of studying the way his ass looks in his well-fitting slacks before he shakes himself and heads over to where Agent Hill waits, her arms crossed, and a smirk on her face that suggests she somehow knows a lot more about Steve’s plans for the evening than he’d like.

***

[Steve, 3:57 p.m.]:  _ Hey babydoll, everything end up OK? _

[Bucky, 4:15 p.m.]:  _ Yep. Filling out endless paperwork right now, but my last student got picked up ten minutes ago.  _

[Bucky, 4:15 p.m.]:  _ I. Hate. Paperwork.  _

[Bucky, 4:15 p.m.]: [IMAGE FILE]

[Steve, 4:17 p.m.]:  _ Sorry, sweetheart. Maybe we should reschedule? _

[Bucky, 4:21 p.m.]: 😲😲😲😲😲😲

[Bucky, 4:22 p.m.]:  _ I can’t believe you’d say that to me. Me. Your loving boyfriend. _

[Steve, 4:23 p.m.]:  _ I’m just worried about you is all. If you’re tired, I don’t know if what I had planned would be … beneficial. _

[Bucky, 4:25 p.m.]:  _ What did you have planned, Steven?  _

[Steve, 4:25 p.m.]:  _ ;) _

[Bucky, 4:26 p.m.]:  _ Steven Grant Rogers. What did you have planned?  _

[Steve, 4:27 p.m.]:  _ Well, I don’t know if I should say over text. It might cause you some alarm, Mr. Barnes.  _

[Bucky, 4:36 p.m.]:  _ Now is not the time to play coy! I have more paperwork and I need a reason to keep going.  _

[Bucky, 4:36 p.m.]:  _ Pleeeeease? _

[Steve, 4:37 p.m.]:  _  I don’t know if it’s school appropriate, babydoll. _

[Bucky, 4:45 p.m.]:  _ You’re so cruel to me. _

[Bucky, 4:45 p.m.]:  _ Technically school ended two hours ago.  _

[Steve, 4:47 p.m.]:  _ Well, if you’re sure. _

[Bucky, 4:49 p.m.]:  _ Of course I’m sure. Honestly. I thought we’d decided I wasn’t that breakable? ;) _

[Steve, 4:53 p.m.]:  _ Fine. The second you get home, babydoll, I want you to strip and get on the bed. Completely naked, hands over your head. Then, you’re going to be a good boy for me. You like being a good boy, don’t you? _

[Bucky, 4:55 p.m.]:  _ Yes sir. _

[Steve, 4:55 p.m.]:  _ God. You’re so fucking perfect, did you know that?  _

[Steve, 4:55 p.m.]:  _ But, perfect boys still have things to learn. And you’re going to learn what it means to take care of yourself. Even if I have to be the one to show you how. Do you want me to take care of you, babydoll? Want me to show you how good boys get taken care of? _

[Bucky, 4:56 p.m.]:  _ Fuck. I really do.  _

[Bucky, 4:56 p.m.]:  _ I mean, yes sir. Yes please. _

[Steve, 4:56 p.m.]:  _ Good boy.  _

[Steve, 4:57 p.m.]:  _ You have your orders. I expect you to follow them when you get to my place.  _

[Steve, 4:57 p.m.]:  _ Now, finish up your paperwork and come home.  _

[Bucky, 4:59 p.m.]:  _ Do you want me to shower before I get there, sir?  _

[Steve, 5:02 p.m.]:  _ How much control do you want me to have tonight? Asking for real, here, Buck. I need you to feel safe. _

[Bucky, 5:03 p.m.]:  _ Want you in control. Completely. Don’t want to think tonight, if that’s okay. _

[Steve, 5:03 p.m.]:  _ Of course it’s okay, babydoll.  _

[Steve, 5:04 p.m.]:  _ I’ll take care of you. I’ll get you clean and take real good care of you. Would you like that? _

[Bucky, 5:05 p.m.]:  _ Yes sir. _

[Steve, 5:08 p.m.]:  _ Here’s the new plan, then. Text me when you’re on your way home, to my place. When you walk in, I want you to strip and wait for me in the foyer. I’ll take care of you from there, babydoll. Get you clean, take you to bed, maybe fuck you senseless. Do you want me to fuck your pretty little hole tonight? _

[Bucky, 5:09 p.m.]:  _ Holy shit I think my soul just left my body. _

[Bucky, 5:10 p.m.]:  _ But yes. Yes please. And my mouth too, sir. _

[Steve, 5:11 p.m.]:  _ What about your mouth?  _

[Bucky, 5:11 p.m.]:  _ I want you to fuck my mouth.  _

[Bucky, 5:11 p.m.]:  _ Sir. _

[Steve, 5:12 p.m.]:  _ Good boy.  _

[Steve, 5:13 p.m.]:  _ Safe word? _

[Bucky, 5:14 p.m.]:  _ Hamilton. Yours?  _

[Steve, 5:15 p.m.]:  _ Pineapple. _

[Steve, 5:15 p.m.]:  _ Text me when you’re on your way, sweetheart. _

[Bucky, 5:16 p.m.]:  _ Yes sir. _

***

Steve’s practically vibrating out of his skin by the time Bucky walks in, a little before seven. His heart’s in his throat, and he wonders if they really should scrap the plan and spend the next five days in bed, but when the door closes behind Bucky, he immediately moves to unbutton his coat, and Steve’s brain skips like a record.

“Are you sure?” He asks softly, trying to keep the sex and  _ want  _ out of his voice long enough to allow Bucky to make a decision. 

“Yes,” Bucky bites his bottom lip with a shy smile before adding, “ _ Sir. _ ”

He continues to undress, and Steve takes his coat from him and hangs it up. While Bucky works on the buttons of his shirt, Steve takes off his own t-shirt, having changed out of his uniform a few hours ago after debrief. When Bucky moves on to his pants, Steve kneels and unlaces Bucky’s boots for him, lifting his foot and carefully sliding the boot off, and then switching to the other foot.

Steve sets the boots aside and rises, watching as Bucky’s fingers fumble with the button on his pants; he smiles when Bucky forgoes any attempt at seduction and pulls his boxer briefs down with his pants in one ungainly motion. 

“Shower,” Steve reminds him, taking him by the hand and pulling him further into the apartment. Bucky’s entire body is on display now, and Steve makes no effort to hide how much he appreciates the sight. When they hit the bathroom, the mirrors fogged up from the already running water, Bucky seems to relax slightly, looking to Steve with wide, expectant eyes, the trust evident in his expression.

_ Shit.  _ Steve really doesn’t deserve this. 

He’ll just have to work harder until he does.

His fingers are shaking slightly when he reaches out to tuck some of Bucky’s hair behind his ears, and then he nods towards the shower. “You first,” he says casually, letting his fingers run down Bucky’s neck, along his collarbone, and through his smattering of chest hair. 

“Yes sir,” Bucky whispers, ducking his head as though suddenly shy. 

“You need to get cleaned up,” Steve points out, pushing him slightly towards the shower. “I’ll be right behind you.” 

Bucky nods, his expression brightening at the promise, and he climbs in without further comment. Steve hastens to take his own pants and underwear off, hopping around on one foot for a second, glad Bucky can’t see him, before chucking the clothes outside the bathroom.

When he climbs into the shower behind Bucky, he smiles at what he sees: Bucky, standing with his head tilted back, water cascading around him and his hair already plastered to his head.

“Hey, gorgeous.”

Bucky smiles without opening his eyes, and Steve runs his hands through Bucky’s hair, scratching at his scalp lightly until Bucky lets out a groan that makes Steve thoroughly erect. He grabs the shampoo, squeezing a generous amount into his palm before working it through Bucky’s thick hair, massaging his scalp as well as he can. 

He can feel Bucky trembling, and he holds him upright as well as he can, standing behind him when he tilts him forward to rinse the shampoo out. He still can’t quite figure out Bucky’s conditioner routine - the man has what Nat calls Disney Princess Hair, and Steve still uses 2-in-1 most days - but he does his best, and judging by the happy, small humming noises Bucky makes, his boyfriend has no complaints.

“I love you,” Steve reminds him softly, switching to soap now. He lathers up a healthy amount on the fancy sponge-thing Pepper had included in his housewarming gifts, and begins to scrub Bucky carefully, his skin turning pink under the water and the attention.

“I love you too.” Bucky tilts his head onto Steve’s shoulder as he slides his hand down towards Bucky’s waist. With a gasp, he tilts his hips forward, trying to get Steve to touch his hard cock, but Steve just presses a kiss into Bucky’s shoulder and continues to wash him; he kneels in the stream of water and continues to massage the muscles of his thighs and calves, under the pretense of working up more lather, and Bucky keens, his hands resting on the wall of the shower now as he arches into the touch.

Steve earns another gasp when he reaches up and starts to knead at the muscles of Bucky’s ass, and a second later, a whine, as he spreads his cheeks to expose the pretty little hole he’d made so many promises to over text message. 

Without further ado, Steve leans in and starts to kiss and lick, enjoying the heady taste of Bucky mingling with the clean water and aftertaste of soap. Water’s running into Steve’s eyes, but he couldn’t give a shit, not as Bucky gasps and mewls and pounds on the wall of the shower; when he reaches around and starts to stroke Bucky’s cock while thrusting his tongue into his hole, Bucky shivers and shakes and then comes with a gasp of Steve’s name.

Smirking, he sits back on his heels and runs his hands up and down Bucky’s thighs a few more times, lazy but loving touches that make him shiver again.

“Let’s get you to bed,” Steve says, rising to his feet and watching the water rinse away the cum while continuing to touch Bucky tenderly. He turns the water off and reaches outside the shower for a fluffy towel, wrapping Bucky up carefully and helping him step out of the shower. 

Bucky’s eyes are hazy and his cheeks pink; Steve admires the way he looks as he towels him off, kissing his skin here and there after he’s dried it.

It’s absolutely no effort to pull Bucky into his arms when they’re both dry enough, or to carry him into the bedroom. The lights are already on low when Steve uses one hand to pull the covers back, still able to hold Bucky in the other arm, and Bucky settles back against the pillows with a contented sigh when Steve lays him down.

He gives him a few minutes to lie there, mostly curious to see if Bucky’s going to fall asleep -- he really won’t stop him from doing just that -- but then Bucky’s eyes flutter open, and he looks up at Steve with the cutest pout he’s seen in the last century.

“Thought you were gonna fuck me?” Bucky asks dreamily, his hand reaching out towards Steve’s cock. 

Steve smirks; part of him wants to tell Bucky not to be a brat, maybe tell him that good boys don’t ask for things and just let their sirs do what they want, but tonight is definitely not about  _ that  _ kind of control. 

“Is that what you want? You want me to fuck you?” Steve asks, sliding his palms up and down Bucky’s calves. Bucky shivers, and his legs fall open, his cock already hard again, red at the tip and leaking against his flat stomach, and Steve dips down to lick away the drop of precome connecting the tip to his stomach. 

“Yes sir,” Bucky nods eagerly, and Steve smiles before reaching up and stroking Bucky’s cheek lovingly.

“You’re such a good boy,” he marvels, and Bucky shudders, eyes slipping shut. “So good for me.”

“Th-thank you.”

“Don’t thank me for telling the truth,” Steve says idly, speaking casually as though his dick wasn’t hard enough to cut diamonds. He digs around in the bedside table for a second before grabbing the lube. “Let me get you ready.”

“No,” Bucky whines while shaking his head. “I don’t need to--”

“Excuse me?” Steve lets his voice get a little sharp, and Bucky stops talking, his lip between his teeth in an endearing show of nervousness. “I thought you wanted me to take care of you. Is that not true?”

“No,” Bucky gasps. “No, sir, please, you can - I’m sorry--”

“It’s okay,” Steve soothes, kissing Bucky’s knee, knowing it’s close enough to where Bucky would actually want contact to drive him a little crazy. “You just aren’t used to it, are you babydoll? You aren’t used to people taking care of you?”

Bucky relaxes and nods, once, looking shy again.

“That’s okay,” Steve says, gripping Bucky’s thighs, letting his thumb push into the muscle ever so slightly so Bucky will be able to really feel it when he lets go. “Because I’m going to take care of you; I take care of what’s mine.”

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes, eyes wide. “Yes please.” 

It’s heady, intoxicating, overwhelming, and Steve needs to breathe for a second as he looks down at Bucky all splayed out like this, legs spread, cock leaking, skin flushed. Steve is making him look like this; he’s the one to make Bucky’s breath hitch, the one Bucky trusts with this, after  _ everything,  _ Bucky trusts him with this. He wonders if he’s earned it, but shakes his head to clear the intrusive thought.

If Bucky didn’t want him to do this, he would say. He can trust Bucky with Bucky’s own mind, his own decisions. Steve shouldn’t let his own lack of self confidence get in the way of that truth, or Bucky’s autonomy. They both want this. That’s what matters.

“Such a good boy to ask so nicely,” Steve praises, and Bucky melts a little more. It’s beyond sweet. 

He clicks open the bottle of lube and pours a generous amount on his fingers, his left hand going to Bucky’s ass to prop it up slightly. He slips his fingers between his cheeks, one finger circling his asshole lightly before pushing in, spreading the lube around as much as he can. Bucky’s eyes roll back into his head -- flattering -- at the treatment when Steve pushes another finger in and starts to massage his prostate slowly. 

“S-Steve--”

“I got you,” Steve reminds him, still working him open. A bead of sweat at Bucky’s hairline slips down towards the bed, and Steve watches, fascinated, and Bucky falls apart a little more. “I always got you, Buck.”

“F-fuck--” His body tense up and Bucky comes a second later, making a mess of the sheets below him, and Bucky’s torso as well. 

_ He hadn’t even touched his cock.  _

“Good boy,” Steve says, almost desperately this time. 

He leans forward, fingers still crooked in Bucky’s ass, and kisses him, all teeth and edge and need. With a surge of regret, Steve realizes this is the first time he’s kissed Bucky since the immediate aftermath of the battle, and he pours the love and ferocious pride he feels for him into the kiss. Bucky moans into it, and Steve gets impossibly harder.

“You ready for me?” Steve asks, the words more of a rumble in the limited space between them.

“Yes sir,” Bucky whispers, arching his back and pressing up against him. “Fuck yes--”

They both moan, embarrassingly loud, when Steve sinks into the hilt, Bucky’s body opening up to him with no resistance. They take a few seconds to settle, and Steve kisses him over and over again while they wait, before he kneels upright, grabbing Bucky by the thighs and pulling him with him, until Bucky’s still lying on his back but his legs are wrapped more or less around Steve’s waist. He grips Bucky’s sides and pulls him back on his cock with deliberate slowness, and Bucky trembles under him. 

“You scared me today,” Steve says conversationally, and Bucky gasps and shakes his head.

“S-sorry--”

“You don’t realize,” Steve continues to thrust his hips slowly, driving his cock into Bucky without any of the speed Bucky wants, but increasing the force of his thrusts while he talks. “How important you are.”

“I’m not important,” Bucky mumbles, eyes glassy, shaking his head. 

Steve wants to stop right then and there because Bucky probably really does think that, especially if he’s saying that when he’s like this: both of them are raw and emotional and vulnerable right now, and Steve tries to maintain a grip on his self control long enough to remember that.

“You are,” he says firmly, dropping Bucky’s legs back down to the bed and hovering over him, curling his body over Bucky’s protectively. “The most important thing in the universe.” He kisses his chest and collarbone sloppily, fucking him deeply but still not quickly, and Bucky’s hands scrabble impatiently at his sides and ass.

“ _ Steve _ \--”

“You were a hero today,” Steve says, his voice strained now. “And you could have died. I - I could have lost you.” Finally, his hips pick up speed, and he isn’t sure who it’s more of a mercy for. “I coulda - fuck, if I lost you -- promise me.”

“Promise you what?” Bucky asks weakly when Steve doesn’t finish the thought.

“Promise me you’ll be careful,” Steve whispers. “When you’re being a hero. Please be careful.”  _ Be everything I’m not, and I’ll try to match you,  _ he doesn’t say.

“Y-you aren’t gonna fo-forbid me from being a hero?” Bucky teases sweetly, and Steve kisses him for it. 

“That wouldn’t do you any good. You’re already a hero, Buck,” Steve reminds him, slowing the pace down again so he can cup Bucky’s jaw and look into his eyes. 

“Am not.”

“Are too. You’re my hero.” Steve noses along Bucky’s jaw, sucking and nipping at the thin skin of his neck, and Bucky tightens around him. “You’re a lot of people’s hero. Just. Promise me you’ll be safe. Promise me you’ll be careful.”

“Steve--”

“Promise me.” He pulls back with a stern look, communicating that this is an order, not a request, and Bucky nods.

“I promise.”

“Good boy.” 

Steve rewards him by thrusting harder, faster, one hand wrapping around Bucky’s cock to stroke in time with his thrusts, and Bucky throws his head back with a shout.

He comes a few seconds before Steve, and Steve chokes out a litany of prayers and curse words into Bucky’s shoulder, kissing the scar tissue reverently before pulling out of Bucky and heaving over onto his side with a groan. 

“You were so good,” he whispers, pulling Bucky towards him and kissing every inch of skin he can. “So good for me.”

Bucky smiles drowsily at him, and Steve continues to kiss him and touch him lightly; he wraps him up in a blanket and carries him into the kitchen a few minutes later to watch him drink a glass of water, and when Bucky’s eyes look a little clearer, he pulls out their impressive collection of takeout menus.

“You pick dinner, sweetheart,” he encourages, kissing Bucky’s forehead and stroking a hand through his still damp hair. 

“Pizza?” Bucky asks with a yawn, tapping their favorite place. 

“Pizza,” Steve agrees. 

He turns to grab his phone from the wall charger, and by the time he turns around, Bucky’s already dozed off at the counter, head on his forearms. Steve watches him sleep with a fondness unfurling in his chest, slow and warm and unstoppable; after he’s ordered the pizzas, he scoops Bucky up and brings him back to bed while he waits for the delivery guy to arrive.

There’s more for them to talk about, of course, and there’s the fallout of the social media rampage Bucky’s students accidentally caused, but he’s got twelve hours until the press conference, and he intends to spend every last one of them at Bucky’s side, reminding him with every touch and kiss and word that he loves him, unconditionally, and for always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhghhhhhhh we're allllmost hitting the max kink I had planned for this -- more or less kink in the future? Hm? Bueller? Bueller?
> 
>  
> 
> The next chapter is called "Meet the Press" but is more accurately "Beat the Press." Basically, the whole world wants to meet the superhero from the museum, and Steve Rogers wants to fight the entirety of the press. That's it.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	12. Meet the Press

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve has another....non-constructive run-in with the press.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I tried to put this up in five days rather than make everyone wait a whole week. It's a little shorter than normal, but I've been sick and at the doctor for the last few days trying to get everything sorted out, so this was as much as my mush brain could produce!
> 
> Bucky POV.
> 
>  
> 
> Mild warning for description of anxiety/panic.

Another day, another press conference.

Bucky watches in horrified amusement from the door to the left of the podium, where he’s hiding to avoid the cameras, as his boyfriend tilts back in his chair and squints at the reporter who just asked “ _Don’t you think it’s irresponsible to announce your sexuality to the world? You’re a role model, and children are going to think the perversity of your lifestyle is acceptable.”_

“Popcorn?” Tony waves a bag in front of Bucky, who grins and shakes his head. Tony shrugs and shoves a handful into his mouth, smirking at the look of barely repressed rage Steve wears.

“The perversity of my _lifestyle_?” Steve leans forward towards his microphone, hands clasped tightly together. “I beg your pardon?”

“Clearly, your actions need to be addressed, or SHIELD wouldn’t have called this press conference,” the man continues, whose expression foolishly seems to indicate that he believes he’s going to win this conversation. “So, I suppose this is your time to apologize?”

“My time to --” Steve splutters before gritting his teeth and scowling at the man with a ferocity that Bucky’s pretty sure could peel the paint off the walls of the press room. “Apologize for _what_?”

“For campaigning for the homosexual agenda! For impugning the colors you wear, and the country you--”

The man stops talking when Steve stands up abruptly, his chair flying out behind him from the force of the motion. Next to Bucky, even Tony looks worried.

“The country I died defending.” Steve stands at attention, forgoing the mic, his voice filling the space of the room just fine. “That’s what you meant to say, right, son?”

“Well,” the man swallows, his knuckles white from how tightly he grips his tablet. “Captain Rogers, the values you were supposed to defend--”

“Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,” Steve snaps. “Don’t lecture me on the Declaration, I learned it and the Constitution before your father was born, fought for those ideals with the greatest generation, and have them memorized. Thanks, though, for trying to help me out there. Appreciate it. Really do.”

“Captain Rogers--”

“The way I see it,” Steve goes on, waving his hand as though the reporter is nothing more than a pesky fly he needs to rid himself of, “I was demonstrating all three of those esteemed values at that moment, and I consistently demonstrate those values _each_ and _every_ time I kiss my boyfriend, not just when we’re on camera.”

“Rheeeeeee,” Tony wheezes, bending over and clutching at Bucky’s arm. At least, Bucky thinks that’s the noise he makes. His own blush is making the air roar in his ears, and it’s a little hard to hear. “Ohhhhh ffff--”

“So you won’t apologize?”

“Ask me to apologize for loving my partner one more time.” Steve scowls down at the reporter, who finally, finally recognizes the danger he’s in and shrinks. “Please. Make my day.”

Bucky has half a mind to kick open the nearest supply closet and barricade himself in for the next seventy years or so, but he also sort of wants to see how this plays out. Also, Steve called him his partner.

_Partners._

‘Til the end of the line.

He likes the sound of that.

“So it’s love, Captain?” Another voice calls out in the press conference, and Bucky squirms when Steve looks over to his and Tony’s hiding spot with a smirk that softens swiftly into a smile when he sees Bucky watching him.

“It’s been love since the second I saw him,” Steve answers, his shoulders relaxing slightly, his voice growing hoarse with fondness. “And I grow in it every day. I make mistakes, sure, plenty of ‘em, but I’m a better man for loving B-- _him_. He makes me want to be the kind of person who picks up the shield every day and fights until their very last breath; even then, I’m not sure I’d deserve him. But I’ll fight right up until the gates of Hell to prove it.”

He turns red by the end of his speech, and not even the sound of camera shutters answers it. It’s not often Captain America makes a lengthy comment based in sentimentality. Bucky’s seen the reels of his wartime speeches, studied the way he could move a crowd or a unit to do whatever he needed, he’s seen the way it inspires his teammates daily. But this, this unabashed declaration of something soft and vulnerable, something good, something that makes the tips of Steve Rogers’ ears a sweet kind of pink -- it’s totally unexpected.

Bucky wants to melt through the floor when Steve’s eyes find him again, and seemingly subconsciously, Steve nods and wets his bottom lip, looking adorably nervous by the time he faces the reporters again.

“Ah -- any … other questions?” He pulls his chair back awkwardly to the table and settles, folding his hands in front of him. Opposite to Bucky and Tony, on the right side of the stage, Pepper gives Steve a small thumbs up (when he looks away, Bucky swears she rolls her eyes before pinching the bridge of her nose as though in exasperation).

“I have a question.” A woman who hasn’t spoken before stands, and Steve looks at Pepper for confirmation before nodding at the new reporter.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Do you think your … partner should step down from his position?”

“His position?” Steve frowns and shakes his head. “Ma’am, my partner isn’t an Avenger.”

Bucky feels something cold trickle down his back, and his gut constricts in anxiety. Tony straightens up and frowns, a hand already on Bucky’s shoulder. Pepper pales visibly next to the stage, already sweeping up to where Steve is standing.

“I’m referring to his teaching position, Captain.”

“His--” Steve’s at a loss for words, the lines of his body radiating tension.

“The footage that’s been circulating multiple social media sites shows your _partner_  -- a teacher at a public charter school in Brooklyn -- fighting with a sheer lack of regard for the safety of the students entrusted in his care.”

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” Steve snaps, his face flushed redder than Tony’s suit. “Really? Bucky saved those kids, those robots weren’t even _there_ for him, and if he weren’t super, people would have died--”

The look of triumph on the woman’s face indicates that she’s won, and Bucky wilts, gripping the wall and ducking out of sight of the doorway entirely, sinking to the floor, and he almost misses the woman saying, “ _So you’re confirming that your partner, James Buchanan Barnes, aged 26, is the person in those videos, and is enhanced? Are we to believe he, like yourself, has received the government issued serum that was said to be non-replicable?”_

“Hey, Buckaroo.” Tony kneels in front of him, gripping his shoulders. “Keep it together, okay? You have to breathe.”

“I’m gonna be sick,” Bucky mutters, and Tony nods.

“Maybe not on the Armani, kid.” He can’t even laugh at the attempt of a joke, only shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut. Tony’s voice grows more concerned. “Happy? Is the path to the nearest elevator clear?”

“Yes sir--”

There’s a roaring in Bucky’s ears again, worse than before, and he can’t fight the pair of arms that haul him up and hustle him forward, barely registers Tony saying “ _Get him somewhere safe before the vultures descend_ \--” and when they’re in the safety of the elevator, he presses his face against the cold metal and tries to breathe in through his nose, out through his mouth, in through his nose --

They end up in Tony’s lab, a neutral space that offers plenty of distractions; Bucky’s spent more than a few hours in here, tinkering around with Tony or simply watching the genius at work (something he knows makes the billionaire playboy philanthropist glow with pride). He collapses into a chair, not looking around at any of the tech, and laces his fingers behind his head, leaning forward and gasping for breath.

“Lean back,” Tony mutters, a water bottle already in his hand. “Here. Drink something.”

Bucky takes the bottle, but his hands are shaking too hard to drink. Tony turns around and immediately starts working on the computer, his hands a blur; he mutters to himself, but Bucky can’t focus on the individual words while his heart throbs like an open wound.

The elevator opens, and he can’t look over to see who the new arrival is, but he doesn’t have to. A second later, small hands are smoothing his hair, and patting his shoulder anxiously.

“Bucky?” Wanda crowds into his side, and he lets her, leaning into her slight frame like she could realistically hold him up. “Don’t listen to them,” she whispers, wrapping her hands around his when he looks over. He swears some of the red that flickers around her fingers slips into his body, and the shaking of his hands diminishes somewhat. “They fear what they don’t know,” she murmurs, butting her head into his shoulder. “It does not mean you deserve their fear. You did nothing wrong.”

He nods, his lip trembling, anxiety too heightened for him to form a proper response, let alone a proper thought -- every so often, the fully realized thought of what just happened, what was just exposed, surges to the forefront of his mind, but he pushes it away every time, not willing to examine the consequences of everything, not willing to acknowledge how poorly that went -- and Wanda squeezes his hands again.

“I can beat them up for you,” Pietro offers, squishing into the other side of the seat. Bucky shifts and is about to reprimand him for trying to make a one-seater into a three-seater, but Pietro’s already up and buzzing around, his movements untrackable. “They will not even see me coming!”

“Sit down, Pietro.” Wanda rolls her eyes and rests her chin on Bucky’s shoulder. He starts to calm, slightly, glad for the twins, for the simple fact that they exist and their paths were able to cost. “Or I will throw you off this building.”

Pietro halts in his tracks. “Do you think I would be able to run up the side of the building if you threw me off of it?”

Tony stops in his typing to consider this, squinting over his shoulder at the lanky teen. He shakes his head and goes back to the monitor. “Don’t try it.”

In the non-panicked part of his brain, Bucky decides that Pietro is most certainly going to try that, and soon. He makes a note to ask Clint to _not_ throw the male Maximoff twin from the Tower, despite any protestations the teen might make about his durability. After a second of consideration, he makes a note to tell Thor, too.

He’s almost smiling by the time the elevator doors open again, and in walks an anxious Steve twisting his hands together, already apologizing as he walks into the lab.

“I’m so sorry.” Steve walks towards them swiftly, radiating anxiety and grief and regret. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t mean--”

“I know you didn’t mean.” Bucky rolls his eyes affectionately. “Punk.”

“Y’know, we should really stop letting you do solo press conferences.” Tony swipes something to the left on his monitor and doesn’t look over. “Pepper banned me from them years ago.”

“For a good reason, Tony.” Pepper apparently had shared an elevator with Steve, and she sweeps towards them, perhaps the only calm person in the room (at least outwardly, Bucky thinks dryly). “How are you feeling, James?”

“I’m okay, Ms. Potts,” he mumbles, exhausted and knowing she’ll see right through that lie.

“Did everyone forget that she married me?” Tony raises his hands in the air in exasperation. “Me! She married me!”

“You’re right,” Bucky rolls his eyes, “Mr. Potts.”

Tony’s hands drop for a second as he tilts his head to the side; he shrugs affably a beat later. “I like the sound of that. _Mr. Potts._ Better yet -- _Potts Industries_.” He spread his hands in the air as though imagining a billboard.

“I’ll draft up the paperwork,” Pepper says with a smirk, and Tony beams at her fondly before going back to what Bucky assumes is damage control on the computer.

There’s a mildly humorous moment when Steve sidles up next to the chair currently occupied by Bucky and a worried Wanda -- the girl scowls up at Steve and shakes her head when Steve indicates he wants to be the one to hold Bucky, and her grip on his shoulder tightens. It’s a nice distraction to be fought over, to have people fighting over the desire to comfort him, and Bucky soaks it in for a moment or two before realizing he’ll have to make the decision of who gets to sit next to him.

“Wanda was here first,” he points out, and she sticks out her tongue at Steve, who grumbles under his breath but sinks to the floor in front of Bucky anyway, burying his face in Bucky’s thigh.

“I’m sorry baby,” he moans softly, and Bucky threads his fingers through Steve’s soft, short hair and scratches at the scalp.

“Don’t apologize,” Bucky whispers. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Even Wanda gives up her feigned irritation to pat Steve’s head like one would pat a large golden retriever, and for a second it feels like everything might be alright here in the safety of Tony’s lab.

Then, the doors to the elevators open one more time, and in walks Natasha, Maria Hill, and Director Fury.

Bucky’s tense again in seconds; Steve feels the shift from where he’s resting his head on Bucky’s lap, and he looks up. He scrambles to his feet, one hand outstretched in front of Bucky and Wanda as he takes a step forward.

“Fury.”

Pepper turns her body ever so slightly as well, a hundred and ten pounds of kick-ass plus baby bump in six inch heels, and Bucky feels strangely more protected by her presence than Steve’s. It was Pepper, after all, who’d authorized Wanda and Pietro’s ill-advised rescue of him all those months ago (without which he’d certainly be dead or worse). And it was Pepper who ferried him out of SHIELD confinement a few weeks later.

Pepper Potts answers to no man. And, regrettably, Steve Rogers has done exactly that.

“Mr. Barnes.” Fury nods at him coolly, ignoring the rest of the people cluttered around him: Tony at his station, fiddling with his watch and scowling; Pietro, still for once, eyes shifting quickly around the room; Wanda tucked in at Bucky’s side, her fingers digging into his arm almost enough to hurt; and of course, Bucky’s first line of defense, Virginia Potts and Steve Rogers.

Bucky isn’t exactly sure he’d want to be Nicholas Fury right now.

“Director,” Bucky says warily. The last time they saw each other hadn’t exactly ended well.

“You’ve made quite the name for yourself in the news today,” Fury says, cutting right to the chase. Bucky shrugs and looks away, unable to handle the mounting anxiety in his gut.

“Is that so?”

“Yes. I believe you’re what the kids call a viral sensation.”

“No one says that,” Pietro snaps irately.

“And that isn’t his fault,” Steve points out. “It was my stupid big mouth. Tony’s right, Ms. Potts, I shouldn’t be allowed in front of the cameras anymore.”

“Oh, Steven, you were fine,” Pepper assures him, but her voice is brittle as she eyes Natasha, Maria, and Fury warily.

“What do you want, Fury?” Tony scowls at him, stalking forward until he’s at the back of the group. “Don’t tell me you came here to shoot the shit about Barnes’s meme status.”

“You would make an excellent meme,” Wanda whispers to Bucky, who offers her a tight-lipped smile in return.

“No, I suppose I didn’t.” Fury doesn’t take his eye off of Bucky, and he forces himself to return the gaze despite squirming under it. “Mr. Barnes, I’d like to talk to you about your future with the Avengers.”

“My future with--” Bucky feels the blood drain from his face.

“His future with the Avenger?” Tony tsks quickly. “Director, all due respect, let Cap propose on his own schedule. Don’t rush a sure thing.”

“Tony,” Pepper says warningly.

“What? It’s true!”

“Not that kind of future.” Fury gives Tony a stern look which goes absolutely ignored. “I mean, Mr. Barnes needs to think about presenting himself to the public as an official member of the Avengers Initiative.”

“After what happened today, it’s the best way to avoid public outcry,” Maria says softly, offering Bucky what appears to be a very genuine smile of regret. “I’m sorry, James, but it might be the only way to avoid calls for your resignation from your teaching position.”

“Resignation?” Bucky repeats, the world swept out from underneath him.

 _But he’s a teacher._ They can’t take that away from him. When he had nothing, when he had absolutely nothing, no hope, no family, no friends, he had teaching. It’s essential to who he is, to his identity. They can’t -- what happened yesterday can’t actually change -- _he didn’t do anything wrong._

The unfairness of it chokes him briefly, and tears of humiliation fill his eyes.

“He doesn’t have to resign,” Steve growls. “The world is just going to have to get over it.”

“Get over the fact that a highly powered individual has zero oversight?” Fury lifts his eyebrow. “Unlikely. Parents catch wind of this, and the next thing you know--”

“Bucky is a good teacher.” Wanda stands, her hands balled into fists. “You cannot do this. You cannot force him--”

“--Not after what he’s been through,” Pietro finishes, spots of color high on his cheeks. “Not after what you people and Hydra did to him!”

“Forcing is hardly the word I’d use,” Fury corrects, his voice not rising to match the twins’.

“Yeah?” Steve crosses his arms and scowls ferociously, walking forward until all Bucky can see of him is his back. “What word would you use, Director?”

“I think forced is as good a word as any,” Tony agrees.

“What if I joined?” Bucky asks weakly, and everyone stops to look at him. Steve’s expression is particularly heartbroken; Bucky can’t look at it for long. He licks his bottom lip nervously, rubbing his clammy palms on his jeans. “If I - if I joined, like … like Wanda and Pietro, more of an associate status, would … could I keep teaching?”

“I’m afraid not,” Fury answers, and Bucky’s gut clenches even more. “It’s not in the cards, Mr. Barnes. You’d be a full time member--”

“Why?” Bucky whispers, shaking with anxiety and what definitely feels like anger. His voice rises as he gets to his feet, and Steve reaches back as though to help him. Bucky ignores it. He needs to do this on his own. “ _Why,_ though? I’m not a hero. I’m a regular person, I didn’t - I didn’t want this! I didn’t ask for this!”

“Not many of us do,” Fury says sternly, shrugging as though Bucky’s highly legitimate (in Bucky’s, and he’d be willing to be most of the people in this room’s, opinion) reasoning doesn’t matter. “But with gifts like yours--”

“Gifts.” Bucky laughs hysterically. “Is that what these are? Then take them back. I don’t want them; give them to someone you can control, someone who’s better at taking orders.”

Steve’s expression shifts to be slightly wounded, and Bucky’s sure this will open up a conversation later, but he’s too furious to take it back right at this second, especially when it’s true.

“Sometimes, I think SHIELD wishes Hydra really had wiped me,” Bucky snarls, and Wanda makes a soft noise of pain, gripping his arm again. “Then I’d be easier for you to control.”

“There’s no need to make baseless accusations.” Fury draws himself up to his full height. “And I’m prepared to make whatever offer necessary to make you realize your place is not out there, but here, fighting the good fight and protecting the earth.”

 _Offer._ What a nice way to phrase it. Bucky eyes his hands, and Natasha’s hands, warily, searching for some kind of device that will knock him out or incapacitate him.

Then, Tony steps directly in front of him; with a flick of his wrists, the gauntlets from his suit sprouts from his watch, and from a band on his other wrist. He raises his hands, and Bucky can hear the arc reactor powering up.

“You want him?” Tony shifts into a more defensive stance. “Go on. Fucking take him.”

“That’s enough, Tony.” Fury clenches his jaw. “It doesn’t have to come to that--”

“You are right,” Wanda agrees, lifting her hand threateningly. A few monitors and pieces of equipment rattle ominously, surrounded by an eerie red glow. “It really does not.”

Steve adjusts his stance as well, and Bucky doesn’t need to see his boyfriend’s face to know he’s wearing a Righteous-Captain America-Will-Kick-Your-Ass expression.

It’s overwhelming, that his friends are jumping to his defense at what’s probably only a mild threat -- he doubts even Fury has the guts to try and drag him out of Tony’s lab -- but what really has tears building in Bucky’s eyes is the small figure of Natasha Romanov crossing over and folding her arms in front of her chest, standing at Steve’s side.

Fury gives her an unreadable look before shaking his head and sighing. “I see I’m outnumbered by the committee.”

“It seems so,” Tony says, not lowering his hands for a second.

“But,” Fury continues, scowling at Tony again. “Mr. Barnes induction into the Avengers Initiative will happen eventually. This order didn’t come from me; it’s coming from my boss.”

Silence meets his announcement. Then:

“Who the fuck is your boss?” Steve asks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh-oh....I wonder what this could portend?
> 
> Could it be ... actual plot?!?!?!?!?!?!?
> 
> Why does SHIELD want Bucky on the Avengers so badly? Will Bucky keep his job?? Tune in next time for Chapter 13, "Code Red, White, and Blue"!
> 
>  
> 
> PS if you're into shrinkyclinks, I started [a pre-John Wick AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18914800/chapters/44902168)where Bucky is the cold-blooded assassin who falls in love with a smol and angry Steve.


	13. A New Order

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fury informs the group of their boss (and everyone is surprised to hear that they even HAVE a boss), and they don't take it well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Work was ridiculously awful in the last week or so (80 hours this week!), so I wasn't able to work on this, and I scrapped the original plan for the second half of this to save it for two chapters from now! Sorry! 
> 
> ~here it is~ 
> 
> It's a talk-heavy chapter, but it's setting up that final push into the finale ;)

Nat’s expression doesn’t shift in the slightest at Fury’s announcement -- to anyone who doesn’t know her. But, she’s one of Steve’s best friends, and he swears he can see a small quiver of her left eyebrow as though she’s fighting the instinct to lift it in incredulity.

“Your boss?” She repeats coolly. “I’m gonna go with Cap on this one -- care to inform us of who ‘your boss’ is?”

Steve sets his jaw while glaring at Fury, knowing without looking that Nat’s used air quotes. Wanda’s still at the ready just behind his shoulder, and Pietro’s ended up behind Fury somehow. All Steve can think of though is Bucky, cornered and scared behind him after a shitty press conference tried to rob him of his privacy and dignity. Steve doesn’t care _who_ Fury’s boss is - the president, the pope, the emperor of the galaxy - he’ll fight them ‘til his dying breath because _that’s_ what he promised Bucky. He’s on Bucky’s team, now, and forever.

“Here’s the thing.” Fury shoves his hands in the pockets of his imposing trenchcoat and shrugs his shoulder back. “It’s more than one person.”

“Oh?” Tony doesn’t seem to believe that, but he does edge forward, his gauntlets still raised. “That’s very enlightening, super helpful, thank you, Director Fury.”

“If you’ll all just … calm … down,” Fury says warningly, eye flicking from face to face. Nat has one hand on her gun, Tony’s gauntlets are powered-up and ready to go, Wanda’s still lifting multiple pieces of multi-ton equipment as though unaware she’s doing that, and Pepper looks fit to kick ass, five months pregnant or no.

Steve catches Tony’s eye and nods imperceptibly; they squabble back and forth silently for a few seconds, and eventually Tony heaves a sigh of pure irritation and drops his hands almost to his sides. Nat begins to move her hand away from her gun, and even Wanda lowers the equipment.

That is, until the elevator doors open.

“You’ll never take him, motherfuckers!” Clint Barton barrels out of the elevator, crossbow raised, no less than a dozen visible daggers strapped to his body.

Everyone immediately raises their weapons, threat level up again in response to the sudden intrusion, and Fury, to his credit, looks put-upon and not surprised or frightened. Clint glares around the room at all of them, bow raised and engaged.

“Everything’s okay,” Steve tries. “Really.”

“Uh-huh.” Clint scowls at him and his eyes slide right past Steve to where Bucky must be. “You okay, buddy?”

“Yeah.” Bucky barely whispers the word, but Steve’s so attuned to everything Bucky does it feels as though he’s shouted the word. He must sign something else because a second later Clint lowers the bow until its arrow -- Steve does _not_ want to know what it’s primed for -- points at the ground. The rest of the group settles slightly, and Fury’s eye closes for a second while he takes a deep breath, as though summoning the energy to deal with all of them.

“What are we all threatening Fury for?” Clint asks curiously. He smiles at Nat. “Hey, honey!”

“Hi, snuggle bear,” Nat answers in a deadpan, flat voice. Clint doesn’t seem to care though, only smiles deeper and scampers over to her, barely stopping to throw another mildly terrifying glare at Fury.

“Fury wants to take Bucky to his leader,” Tony says, and Clint scowls and lifts his bow again.

“I knew it! You gotta be batshit to try this more than once, Director.”

“Can everyone please … calm down.” Fury pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs again, his shoulders heaving. Steve feels sorry for the guy. Almost.

“Who is your boss?” Nat demands. “I thought we were out of the Security Council’s control, after …”

“After Project Insight?” Fury shakes his head. “Sadly, no. The powers that be decided the Avengers needed a little more oversight than my eye could provide.”

“When were we going to be clued in on this?” Tony spits out, but Pepper lays a calming hand on her husband’s arm before turning to Fury.

The look she gives him makes everyone stand up a little taller.

“Director Fury,” Pepper says calmly. Steve swears the temperature in the room drops five degrees. “Would you care to explain how it is that the Avengers -- and all their subsidiaries -- came under the purview of a ...what shall we call it, a shadow council?”

“After Project Insight, the Security Council was disbanded, mainly because almost all their known members worked for Hydra. But, while the Avengers have done a decent job staying out of the news for what shall we say are _bad_ reasons--”

“You’re welcome,” Tony mutters.

“--there were many folks who decided it was a stupid ass idea to let you run around with no one watching. So, they formed a new council and asked me to work with you all. The council approves missions, keeps the peace, and yes, even asked to vet all potential incoming members. Including Mr. Barnes.”

“Well, that should be easy then,” Bucky says, speaking up at last. Steve drops his defensive position in front of his boyfriend to stand next to him and hold his hand. Bucky squeezes back and smiles at Steve tiredly before looking over to Fury. “I don’t want to be a member. I don’t even want to use these powers. If I could give them back, I would. Tell your bosses that, then.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Fury does look properly apologetic, but Steve doesn’t care about apologies, not when they’re meaningless, not when Bucky’s going to have to go up for questioning anyway. Like a criminal. “They’re saying they’ll ground any and all Avengers activity until you report.”

Tony laughs, a short bark with an edge of hysteria. “I’m sorry. _What_ ? You’re going to - to ground us? Okay, _Dad,_ let me just hand over the keys to the three dozen jets in the basement of this building, the ones I fucking built and paid for.” He jabs a finger at Fury, the back of his neck bright red. “You have to got be kidding me, Nicholas Nickleby. I don’t give a shit what your council says; I don’t have to listen to them, especially because I never fucking signed anything that said I would have to. I listen to Pepper Potts and maybe sometimes JARVIS, and that’s about it. What are they going to do? Put me in fake jail with their fake authority?”

“Their authority is very much real,” Fury’s jaw clenches, and Steve stares at him.

“How?” He asks incredulously. “We didn’t even know they existed until two minutes ago. How can their authority be real? How did they get that authority? And who said they had any right to tell us what to do?”

His hand tightens around Bucky’s probably to the point of pain, but Bucky keeps squeezing back.

“The Accords,” Fury begins, but Steve cuts him off.

“The Accords are _nothing_ ,” he snaps. “They were buried. No one wanted them except for a dozen or so senators who were in the back pocket of corporations funded by Hydra. The public hasn’t voted for them, and we haven’t signed shit. So, I’m sorry to your council, but we don’t recognize any authority given by _The Accords._ ”

“What I am _trying_ to say,” Fury begins again, his scowl deepening impressively. “Is that the _Accords_ might just happen whether or not we want them to. And, if public hysteria surrounding a secret, hidden Avenger who walks among them as a school teacher gets any worse, those who want the Accords for all the wrong reasons will be able to manipulate it to get what they want, and then you won’t get to see _my_ pretty face telling you about missions. You’ll have to go through _them._ And they are not nearly as nice as I am.”

“Doubtful,” Nat mutters, tossing a piece of hair behind her shoulder and crossing her arms.

“Did you know about this?” Steve asks her quietly as Tony starts up shouting again. Nat shakes her head, worrying at her bottom lip. She makes no effort to hide her irritation, and that scares Steve, just a little.

“First I’ve heard about it,” Nat whispers back. “Last I heard, Fury was calling the shots.”

And then, quietly, at Steve’s side, Bucky addresses Fury.

“I’ll meet with them.”

“Like fuck you’ll meet with them,” Steve snaps, and Bucky frowns up at him, blinking dolefully. The grey in his eyes has never more closely resembled storm clouds than in this moment, and Steve’s lost in them for a long second, a ship on the ocean.

“I can make my own decisions,” Bucky reminds him softly.

“I know you can,” Steve insists, “it’s just - we don’t know who these people are, and what they want, if they’re Hydra--”

“I’d like to think that they aren’t,” Fury interjects.

“--Because _we’ve been fooled before,_ ” Steve continues on louder than before, glaring at Fury who nods in acceptance of that point, surely having come to it himself. “Who even put them at the head of SHIELD without us knowing?”

“There was a vote between senior senators and the President. Those on the council are a collection of highly ranked government officials and scientists who have served the country since before Mr. Barnes here was born. And they do want to meet with him. To gauge whether or not he’s a threat, and to offer him a permanent place on the Avengers. And, I say offer, Barnes, but I hope you understand it will be an order.”

Bucky nods, swallowing drily, but Steve wraps an arm around him protectively and scowls at Fury.

“I meet them first,” he says coldly. “They don’t get near Bucky until I trust that they aren’t going to hurt him. Or imprison him if he doesn’t give them an answer they want.”

“Steve--” Bucky whispers, his eyes soft and strangely hurt.

“Non-negotiable,” Steve counters. “They will have to kill me this time before I let them hurt you.”

“Very well.” Fury looks around the room one last time before turning away. “I’ll set up a meeting. Have a nice evening, everyone.”

When he enters the elevator and the doors slide shut behind him, a collective sigh of relief goes around the room. Clint starts talking automatically, waving his crossbow around and getting angrier and angrier -- Nat has a grip on his arm, but he’s not paying her any mind as he rants at no one in particular about _unfair_ and _illegal_ and _tax-payer dollars!_

Tony points at Steve and Bucky. “Say the word, and I’ll send you to a special little hideaway. You’ll love it. Tiny spot, off the map, off the grid, off anything at all, and you two can have your little May-December romance far away from anyone and everyone. They’ll never find you.”

“I’m not running from this,” Bucky says with a sad smile. “But thanks, Tony.”

“Are you sure?” Steve blinks and stares at the ground, well aware that Bucky and Tony are both staring at him incredulously. “We can … I’d run with you, Buck. I’d run anywhere if it kept you safe.”

“We have no way of knowing that meeting with the council won’t be safe,” Bucky insists. “You’re like a little mother hen sometimes. This could be fine.”

“Or they could hurt you,” Wanda pipes up, her large brown eyes wounded and grieving. “We don’t know who they are, Bucky. I can’t … I can’t see anything about it, it’s …. It’s just dark. I don’t trust it.”

“What?” Tony looks at her, more than a little taken aback. “What do you mean you can’t see it?”

“I can see most things,” Wanda shrugs. “The truth, lies, people in the world, minds that work and tick like clockwork. I believe that Fury thinks it will be safe for him, but I can’t see any path, good or bad, that he can follow. It is … unclear.”

“We can go with you, Steve,” Pietro offers. “Wanda can hide, and it’s hard to see me if I don’t want to be seen.”

“Thanks.” Steve nods and Bucky looks up at him imploringly, tense at the sudden offer by the twins. “But, I think Bucky and I would both feel better if you stayed at the Tower.”

Pietro and Wanda roll their eyes in terrifying teenage tandem, and Steve smiles, welcoming the familiar sight.

“Well, if that’s settled.” Tony heads towards the computers, most likely to do some sort of illegal hacking, and Clint turns to Steve.

“Here, buddy.” He hands the crossbow tenderly to Steve, with the reverence reserved for a newborn child. “You might need this.”

“Clint, I couldn’t,” Steve eyes Nat over Clint’s shoulder, and sees her nodding her head in faux-respect, a smirk playing at her lips.

“I insist.” Clint pats the crossbow lovingly, and Steve has no choice but to press his lips together and thank him.

***

“I don’t want you to go.”

“Buck.” Steve turns from where he’s buttoning up his dress uniform in the mirror to smile at his boyfriend before turning back around. “I told you. We have to make sure this isn’t some kind of Hydra trap to take you away again.”

Bucky drapes himself over Steve’s shoulders with a soft whine, pressing his forehead against the top of his spine. “Please don’t go.”

“I have to.” Steve pauses in doing up his uniform to grab one of Bucky’s hand, right where it peeks over his shoulder. He squeezes his fingers in an attempt to reassure Bucky before going back to his buttons.

“You really don’t. This is -- this is fucking stupid, okay? There’s no _reason_ for you to go there without me. We could go together, and if shit is weird, we leave.”

“If shit is weird,” Steve turns to hold Bucky, who tries to give him puppy eyes before Steve pulls him in, “I don’t want you anywhere near it.”

“You aren’t worth any less than I am,” Bucky whispers, and Steve kisses his neck and shoulder softly, stroking his hands up and down Bucky’s back, the lines of which are tense with anxiety. “Baby, please, I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

“And I don’t either,” Steve admits. Bucky pulls away, mouth already open to make a point that no doubt has more logic and common sense than Steve has in his whole body, but Steve shakes his head. “ _But,_ it’s just a quick trip down to D.C. And I won’t even be alone. Tony’s coming, remember?”

Anthony Edward Stark had been _quite_ insistent that he be the other emissary for the Avengers when they met their “ _apparent avenging overlords_.” Steve doesn’t think he’ll ever forget Fury’s face when Tony slapped him on the shoulder and said, “And I better come back with both eyes -- Pepp likes me better that way.”

Bucky doesn’t look any less miserable when Steve pulls away, and his heart aches, a full ripping throb, in his chest. “I could go with you. I could - I could wait somewhere safe, and --”

“The safest place is here at the Tower,” Steve reminds him. He sits heavily on the vanity behind him and frowns at Bucky who makes a face at that statement. “I know - I _know_ it wasn’t for you a few months ago, but Pepper isn’t letting anyone near you. Or Clint. Or the twins. You’re safest here. I completely agree with you -- I have a terrible feeling about this--”

“So why go?” Bucky pleads, grabbing Steve’s shoulders and glaring at him. WIth Steve sitting, they’re roughly the same height, and Bucky looks rather like an avenging angel glowering down at him. “We can run away. I change my mind, we can run away together and--”

“And you’ll never teach again?” Steve lifts his eyebrows, and Bucky bites down his bottom lip, looking away from him but letting him go. “You’ll never go out in public again? Or me? We live out the rest of our lives on an island, completely alone?” He shakes his head with a weary sigh. “You deserve better than that life. We both do. And … if this is just a bureaucratic hoop for us to jump through to get a better life--”

“--A _stupid_ bureaucratic hoop--”

“--Then I’ll jump through it. Over and over again, if it means being with you, if it means not having anyone else bother us ever again. I’ve jumped through worse. Trust me.”

“You aren’t your shield,” Bucky says in a broken voice, the ferocity on his face falling away to fear as he holds Steve’s jaw in his hands. Steve’s held the weight of collapsing buildings, but finds it difficult to hold Bucky’s gaze suddenly. “You’re so much more than it.”

“I’m not doing this as Captain America.” Steve places his hands on Bucky’s hips and pulls him in until he’s flush against him. “I’m doing this as Steve Rogers.”

“That’s not --” Bucky rests his forehead against his. “ _You_ are not a shield. You do not need to stand between people and the rest of the world. Not when … Steve, I’m strong now. Let me be strong, too.”

“You were always strong, babydoll.” Steve’s breath catches in his throat after Bucky makes a noise of frustrated grief. “This isn’t about you being weak. But if I can’t stand between the rest of the world and the man I love, then I’ll never be able to rest.”

“Steve, listen to me--” Steve waits for the end of that sentence, but instead, Bucky makes another noise of frustration and slots his mouth over his own, kissing him with abandon.

Steve has to lean back on the vanity, as a result of the sheer ferocity with which Bucky kisses him, passion and tenderness bleeding together while Bucky clearly tries to communicate his fear and trepidation. Steve kisses him back with greed, cupping the back of Bucky’s neck while his other hand roams up and down Bucky’s body before grabbing his ass and hauling him in closer.

They break apart, panting, and Bucky’s shaking to Steve’s horror.

“Babydoll?”

“That wasn’t a goodbye kiss,” Bucky says almost warningly, his voice full of tears. “So don’t you _dare_ do anything stupid while you’re down there, Steven Grant Rogers.”

“I won’t,” Steve promises, his mouth dry suddenly at the fear in Bucky’s face. “I swear. I promise, I’ll come back to you.” He holds Bucky’s hand over his heart as he makes the promise, praying that he’ll be able to feel the earnestness of it through the wool of his uniform, through every layer.

Bucky pats at the front of his jacket before pulling out a small package from his inside pocket. “I had this made for you,” Bucky mumbles, handing the parcel over. “I don’t think it’ll clash too bad with that uniform.”

He gives Steve an appreciative once-over, as though trying to bring some levity back to the moment, and Steve smiles at him. He slides off the vanity and Bucky moves with him to give him space, and he unwraps the gift quickly, his big fingers not mangling the tissue paper too badly.

It’s a small, flat, metallic square with Hebrew lettering on the bottom readingבאשערט.

”It says _bashert_ ,” Bucky says, sliding his finger over the inscription and not looking up at Steve. Steve can see the tips of his ears, bright red, through his curtain of hair. “I figured when you were wearing it, you’d remember that I was … I don’t know, always there. Or something. That your soulmate's waiting for you to come back in one piece.” Bucky sighs heavily, and Steve tucks some of Bucky’s hair behind his ear until he looks up.

“It’s perfect,” Steve says, and Bucky offers him a watery smile.

They kiss again, less ferociously than before, and this one definitely feels more like a goodbye, Steve gripping Bucky around the waist, Bucky gripping Steve’s shoulders, neither of them willing to break away, not until JARVIS gently clears his voice and says, “ _Mr. Stark is waiting for you, Captain._ ”

“Yeah, yeah.” Steve nods and kisses Bucky on the nose one last time. “I love you.”

“Til the end of the line,” Bucky grips him tighter for a brief moment, sheer panic in his face. “Tell me I’m being silly, tell me I’m overreacting, tell me that nothing bad’s going to happen--”

“You aren’t silly,” Steve answers, sliding the necklace over his head until it rests out of sight under his collar. “And you aren’t overreacting, so don’t tell yourself that. Also -- I can’t promise that. But I promise that come hell or high water, I’ll come back to you. Nothing can ever stop me from coming back to you.”

He wants to say _it’s just a meeting_ but nothing is ever just anything in their world, and Steve learned a long time ago that battles can come at any time. Bucky nods, though, the panic receding even without promises that would have been hollow.

“Thank you for this,” Steve adds, touching his hand to where the necklace hides out of sight. “I love it, and I love you. So much.”

“I love you too.” Bucky laughs and then offers Steve his hand. “I’ll walk you down to the car?”

“Yeah.” Steve smiles at him and takes the offered hand; they walk towards the elevators, and Steve tries not to think too hard about the piece of jewelry hiding in the vanity he’d sat on, hiding away in a small, velvet box locked in a drawer and waiting for the right moment.

It’ll have to wait until he gets back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!!!!
> 
>  
> 
> Like I said before, work was crazy this week, but it shouldn't be too bad next week! I'll hopefully update this before next Wednesday (I don't really write in pieces -- I write the chapters in one go, so I have to have two or so hours carved out of free time if I want to write 4000-ish words)
> 
> \-- let me know what you thought//who you think is on that council//what could EVER be in that box Steve's thinking about?


	14. Road Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Clint head off on a rescue mission of their own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry sorry sorry this is a day or two later than planned, life is being very Life-y

It feels absolutely beyond wrong to watch Steve and Tony drive away, off through Manhattan and towards the meeting with the new council. Pepper doesn’t look any happier about the situation, but she still stands tall, her shoulders set, her face a stoic mask as her husband disappears out of the underground parking structure; her hand briefly frames the swell of her stomach -- she’s six months along now, after all, and Bucky worries about the stress Tony and Tony’s job put on her -- but that’s the only sign of her worry.

Clint Barton, however, puts forth zero effort in maintaining his composure.

“Let’s rock and roll,” he barks at Bucky, slapping him on the shoulder.

“I’m sorry?” Bucky smiles in polite confusion at his friend, who’s already walking forward to a sleek, black sports car.

“I packed for you already. You’re, what, a medium? And a 29, 30/33?” Clint opens the trunk of the car and hurls a black duffel bag at him, which Bucky only barely manages to catch.

“Uh.” Bucky stares at Clint now, holding the duffel in front of his chest like a shield. “That’s. Terrifyingly accurate.”

“We need to bulk you up, Bucky Bear,” Clint continues, shuffling through the back seat of the car. “There’s protein bars in the side pocket of the bag!”

“I’m not...hungry?”

“You need your calories if we’re going to pull off this mission.”

Clint straightens out with a massive sniper rifle in his hands, and he adjusts and checks the scope on it before chucking it back in the car with a disturbing lack of concern, and with a disturbing clatter that suggests Clint threw the gun down on top of other guns.

“What mission?”

“Steve’s our mission,” Clint slams the back door of the car and grins brightly at Bucky, who looks over at Pepper in confusion. She shakes her head at him and smiles, looking unperturbed by Clint’s behavior. “And Tony. We’re going to cover their asses and make sure nothing fucked up happens to them.”

“Uh-huh.” Bucky nods like this isn’t news to him, but his head is reeling. “I - I have school on Tuesday, Clint.”

“We should be back by tomorrow night if this whole thing isn’t some weird trap,” Clint says cheerfully. The elevator dings behind them, and they all turn to watch Nat traipse off the lift and towards Clint with a smug look that isn’t quite happy. “And, if we aren’t back by Tuesday--”

“I can let your school know you won’t be there,” Pepper says smoothly. She walks over to put a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, and he relaxes slightly in her calming presence. Must be a helpful thing with Tony buzzing around all the time. “They’ll probably be more than understanding if you took a day or two off after what happened last week, and I’ve seen your emergency sub plans, they’re very good.”

“Yeah,” Bucky admits, clearing his suddenly tight throat. “That … that makes sense. Thanks, Pepper.”

He doesn’t say out loud though how painful the idea is of not being there for his students on Tuesday; Bucky doesn’t want to quit, no matter what. This is his life they want to take away from him, his teaching, his career, his kids, and … he needs to fight for it.

With new resolve, he turns to Clint and nods, tightening his jaw. “I’m in.”

“Of course you’re in,” Clint crows delightedly, “Now, suit up!”

Bucky ducks into an alcove -- it makes sense that Avengers Tower has so many nooks and crannies for people to sneak around and change into their costumes in secrecy, but it’s still undeniably weird -- and changes into the low-slung, black cargo pants Clint had thrown into the duffel bag. His stomach clenches at the sight of the bulletproof vest, heavy with buckles and pockets sewn in for smaller weapons, but he puts it on over his long-sleeved t-shirt anyway, and then tugs on the black sweater from the bottom of the bag.

He carefully folds his normal clothing and puts them in the duffel; when he walks back out to where Pepper, Clint, and Nat are waiting, he notices that Bruce has joined them, as well as Wanda and Pietro.

“Hey,” Bucky does his best to smile at Wanda as he throws his bag in the back of the car.

“We want to come with you,” Wanda begins, and Bucky’s already shaking his head.

“Nuh-uh. No way.” His voice grows more adamant the more stubborn Wanda looks.

“Everyone told us no when they took you,” Wanda reminds him, and it would be mulish, bratty, very ‘little sister’ of her except for the way her voice sounds like it’s breaking. “And we were the ones who found you. We can do this.”

“I know you can,” Bucky admits, his tone gentling in response to how sad she looks. Even Pietro’s wilted. “But - we don’t know if this is going to go badly, and you … you have to stay here, where it’s safe.”

“We do _not,_ ” Pietro begins, but for once, Bucky’s faster.

“Yes, you do.” He’s as firm as he knows how, and the twins quiet, their hands twined. “You two -- you’re my family, yeah?” His throat tightens unbearably. “I love you both, and -- and I wouldn’t be able to focus if I knew you weren’t here, safe, away from … whatever we’re walking into.”

“Bucky,” Wanda says, massive eyes filled with tears, and he sets his jaw and shakes his head.

“I can’t,” he whispers. “I can’t lose you two. I can’t.”

His arms are very full of Maximoff twin a few seconds later, Pietro reaching him before Wanda does, and Bucky rests his chin on Wanda’s head, her dark auburn hair tickling his nose slightly as he hugs her tight, and Pietro hugs them both with his long, gangly arms.

“We love you,” Wanda whispers fiercely, her face pressed into his chest. “And you’re _ours._ ”

“Yeah?” Bucky sniffs and laughs a little wetly, his ears burning red at the thought of it, of being someone’s family.

He’s Steve’s family, he knows that for sure, doesn’t doubt it, even when he doubts other things -- but Wanda and Pietro, they’re different. The kind of family they offer him is different. They need each other in a different way than Steve needs Bucky and Bucky needs Steve.

“Yeah, boss,” Pietro assures him, squeezing him tight with the obnoxious energy teenage boys have. “So don’t die, okay?”

Feeling more than a little verklempt, Bucky pulls back from the hug to wipe his face and smile at them. “I’ll try my best,” he promises shakily, and Wanda makes a soft scoffing noise and bops his arm.

“Not try. _Do._ ”

“Calm down, Yoda,” Pietro mutters, elbowing her, and she rolls her eyes at her brother; the whole thing feels so domestic Bucky has to avert his eyes, or his covert mission with Clint will be over before it’s started.

“If you leave in the next fifteen minutes, you’ll have given them enough of a head start that you won’t be caught,” Pepper offers as she examines her tablet, breaking the tension of the moment and distracting Bucky from the ache behind his heart.

“Caught?” Clint snorts. “How am _I_ going to get caught? When have I ever been caught?”

“Budapest,” Nat says immediately, her arms crossed in front of her chest.

“We don’t talk about Budapest,” Clint reminds her, finger up and brows lowered.

“Bucharest,” Nat continues. “Bangladesh. Belgrave. Bermuda. Those are just the B’s--”

“--I get it--”

“And, if we’re all done with our feelings,” Nat says, swatting the finger Clint’s put in her face as though he were an annoying fly, “I have some interesting information.”

“How interesting is interesting?” Bruce asks warily. Nat smirks at him and pulls a small tablet from her pocket, waving it around.

“Does this look familiar?”

“That’s Fury’s,” Pepper says immediately, eyes wide. “Natasha, you didn’t--”

“Oh, but I did.” Nat’s smile reminds Bucky of a freshly sharpened knife. “He thought we were sharing an elevator out of solidarity.”

“Oh my God.” Clint falls to his knees next to Nat. “Marry me. Again.”

“Again?” Bruce repeats, eyebrows near his hairline.

“Fine,” Nat consents, rolling her eyes with such an overabundance of fondness, Bucky wonders how everyone’s missed it for so long.

“Again?” Bruce seems like a record skipping, and Bucky shakes his head at him.

“I wanted you here to see this too, Bruce,” Nat says, clearly indicating they’re skipping over the revelation he’s been gobsmacked by. “There’s something in it that might … interest you.”

The tablet powers on, and she flicks through with bored disinterest.

“Here, from a message dated back an hour after the attack on the museum.” Nat tosses the tablet to Bruce, who barely catches it. “That name look familiar?”

Bruce brings a whole new meaning to the term _looking green,_ and Bucky takes an unconscious step back, in front of Wanda, and his hand near Pietro.

“Why is he emailing Fury?” Bruce asks weakly. His legs tremble, and Pepper steps forward to brace him. Bruce nods at her shakily before staring at Natasha, silently pleading with his eyes. “Why, Nat?”

“He’s on the council,” she informs him, and Bruce lets a soft cry of almost pain, his hands clutching the tablet. Pepper rubs his back soothingly, frowning down at the tablet in clear confusion.

“George Tarleton?” Pepper reads with a clear question in her voice. “I know that name.”

“He’s a scientist,” Natasha says neutrally, and Clint’s expression matches the one Bucky’s sure he’s wearing -- confused ignorance. “He’s helped a lot of lobbyists, a lot of Congressmen, and he managed to get a spot on the council under the name of innovation.”

“Why do they need someone there for that when we have Tony? And Bruce?” Bucky asks, and Clint nods next to him. It’s an empty question, and no one answers it.

Tony Stark can’t be controlled, and Bruce Banner is a wild card on the best of days -- and George Tarleton is probably their failsafe.

“I’m not telling you this lightly,” Nat addresses Bruce. “I … you should know, what we’re up against.”

“Up against?” Bucky repeats incredulously. “So it’s definitely hostile?” When no one answers him, he raises his voice. “Who the hell is George Tarleton?”

“He used to work for a genetics lab.” Bruce hands the tablet to Pepper and shuffles backward until he hits a charging station for one of Tony’s electric cars. He buries his face in his hands for a long moment, and when Bucky opens his mouth to ask another question, Pepper catches his eye and shakes her head ever-so-slightly.

“Tarleton was a real up and comer,” Bruce continues bitterly, dropping his hands to wrap his arms around himself, like he’s holding something in, like he’s holding something back.

His face is a mask of agony, and not like it is pre-transformation. Bucky’s stomach curdles at the sight-- Bruce is one of the kindest people he knows, and he actively hates seeing him like this. Wanda looks the most uncomfortable with Bruce’s current state, and Bucky wraps an arm around the small psychic.

“Everyone was eager to work with him. Even,” Bruce squeezes his eyes shut, “Even Betty Ross, my … my …”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but Bucky knows, inherently, having felt the kind of love that leaves its marks on a person. Betty Ross was to Bruce Banner what Steve is to Bucky. And Bruce lost his Steve. Bucky can’t even imagine what that must feel like, but he imagines it’s something like losing your anchor right before a storm, your anchor and the person who made you feel safest, gone forever.

“She uh, she wasn’t doing well, her dad, well, you...you met him--” Bruce shoots Bucky an apologetic look, which is confusing, until something clicks in his brain.

Betty Ross. _Ross,_ like Thaddeus, who’d wanted to use Bucky to start a war with Hydra, to use him and his experimentation or death to cement the Accords. Oy.

“He was a piece of work, and she -- she had times where she...didn’t do so well. And last year, after they had a horrible fight -- I wonder, now, if she realized he was Hydra -- she pulled away, buried herself in her work.” Bruce stares at the floor now, quivering with something that isn’t quite rage, but close enough that everyone looks on edge. “So, I went to her office. Begged to see her -- she was the lead scientist under Tarleton’s newest pet project, and she was one of his favorites...miserable old bastard...never liked the way he, the way he,” Bruce clears his throat and shook his head, and Bucky swear a vein in his forehead flashes green, “And he came out personally to greet me. Told me… told me she was too busy to see me, and she was doing fine, better than ever.”

Bruce looks up, but he looks through all of them, his eyes haunted and his mind a thousand miles away.

“There was an accident two weeks later. She died, and no one would tell me anything.” Silence stretches painfully across the parking deck, and with a shout of frustration, Bruce punches the charging station, hard enough that it rocks on its reinforced foundations.

“Bruce,” Nat says warningly, and he nods, his head dropping, his shoulders heaving.

“If Tarleton is involved, it’s nothing good,” Bruce says after he’s collected some of his past composure. “I … I thought he died in the accident, too. The lab Betty was working for was under new management after the accident, and …” Bruce shakes his head and closes his eyes. “I thought, at least he was dead, too. And now you’re telling me--”

“You needed to know,” Natasha walks forward and puts a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, a sign of solidarity that surprises Bucky -- it’s no secret that the Hulk makes Natasha uncomfortable, afraid even (the only thing she _is_ afraid of, if Clint’s got it right) and the Hulk doesn’t seem to be well-contained at the moment. “I’m sorry that she’s gone, Bruce. You know I - I cared about Betty, too, but if Tarleton’s alive, and involved--”

“Then he needs to be stopped,” Bruce finishes for her, covering her hand with his own and smiling at her sadly. “Thanks for telling me, Nat.”

“Are you coming with, then?” Clint asks, gesturing at the car.

“No, not at the moment.” Bruce holds his hand out for the tablet, and Pepper hands it over quickly. “I think Natasha and I better look this over, and if you need us, well…”

“It’s less than an hour to DC by quinjet,” Pepper points out.

They’re in the car less than a minute later, hugs handed out from everyone but Bruce, who’s still bristling, still examining the tablet with wounded eyes -- even Natasha hugs Bucky, which surprises him, and when she whispers _come back in one piece, or Steve will kill me,_ he laughs, and it’s the lightest he’s felt around the redheaded spy since June.

“Ready to kick some ass?” Clint asks, and Bucky nods at him from the passenger’s side. “Buckle up, Bucky-cup.”

Bucky does so, and a second later, lets out an involuntary scream of a laugh when Clint floors it, and they rocket forward out of the underground deck and out into the street, JARVIS scolding them from the speakers the whole way.

***

If they weren’t potentially headed towards their doom at a comfortable seventy miles per hour, Bucky might be able to enjoy the car ride; Clint Barton is an ideal road trip buddy, after all, and he’s packed a remarkable number of snacks and tunes for the journey. The sun is streaming in through the window peacefully, and it's warm enough that Bucky's sweater is long forgotten on the floor in front of him, leaving him in just the long sleeved tee and Kevlar vest.

“Gatorade is in the back,” he says as they zip through Maryland, pulling some unique maneuvers to avoid traffic, maneuvers that Bucky isn’t entirely sure are legal, while Steve Perry sings about riding into the midnight sun. “Got Blue and-- hey _fucker,_ watch the road! God, Maryland drivers, I swear -- and Yellow.”

“Blue it is,” Bucky says, twisting in his seat to grab the drinks. He shuffles around on the floor and when his fingers close around something cool, he picks it up. A second later, he shouts in alarm. “What the fuck?”

“What? What is it?” Clint turns his eyes off the road to look at him, and Bucky slaps him in the arm.

“Look at the road, asshole!’

“Fine! What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong? This is what’s wrong!” Bucky grabs the cold item again and shakes it near Clint’s face. “This is a motherfucking _grenade,_ not _gatorade_!”

“So?” Clint shrugs nonchalantly, and Bucky envisions yanking the wheel hard enough to have them careening off the highway. “Just don’t pull the pin, we’ll be fine.”

“We’ll be--” Bucky screeches in disbelief, but Clint just yawns in pointed disinterest.

“I thought you were going to say I’d only packed _red_ Gatorade. Now _that_ would be a crisis.”

Bucky flicks him in the ear after muttering to himself for a few seconds, and Clint yelps, jerking the wheel slightly.

“Do you wanna get us killed?” He demands, and Bucky feels his eyebrows shoot up.

“I’m sorry, but who’s the one with grenades rolling around on the floor of their car?”

“They’re rolling around?” Clint finally has the good sense to blanche. “Shit. I thought I put them in a Ziploc.”

“You - I -- you store your grenades in a Ziploc?” Bucky asks in disbelief, regretting his decision to get in the car.

“It’s a double zip guard!” Clint snaps back defensively, and Bucky scoffs. Then, his friend’s expression clears remarkably. “Hey! We’re crossing into DC!”

“With an open Ziploc baggie of grenades, sure, that'll go over well,” Bucky grumbles, stowing the explosive down at his feet, wondering how his life took him to a place where _that_ was the most logical decision.

“Could you actually grab me a Gatorade?” Clint asks, pouting well enough that Bucky rolls his eyes, sap that he is, and turns around again to comply.

He’s half out of his seat, belt straining at his chest as he tries to snag a blue Gatorade for Clint, when the car screeches to a sudden, painful halt. Bucky tips forward and then snaps back, his neck twinging painfully.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Bucky snaps, coming up quickly and rubbing his chest, which is definitely bruised now. He chucks the Gatorade into Clint’s lap and scowls, his hand migrating to his neck, which feels like he got drop-kicked off the side of Everest. “That was --”

“Robots,” Clint says calmly.

“Robots isn’t an adjective,” Bucky shoots back snippily, letting his head droop down below his shoulders so he can try to roll out some of the tension in his upper spine. “Honestly--”

“No.” Clint grips his arm tightly and shakes him until he looks up. Bucky’s eyes widen immediately. “Robots.”

Sure enough, murderous, angry, reptilian robots are pouring across the highway, blocking off their entrance to the capitol, and over the sound of Clint’s beloved Journey CD, Bucky swears he can hear them hissing, hear their claws clicking together threateningly.

People around them are fleeing their cars and screaming, but the robots seem to be frozen, as though waiting for a command; their red, creepy eyes, however, are definitely fixed on the car Bucky and Clint are sitting in.

“Fuck,” Bucky comments mildly, one hand still on his neck.

A robot lands on the hood of the car out of nowhere, claws extended.

“Double fuck!” Clint agrees, unbuckling quickly and smacking the release button on Bucky’s seat belt as well.

Clint pulls a handgun from inside his coat and jumps out of the car. Bucky does the same, minus the hand gun, and Clint dives into the backseat long enough to grab a rifle.

“Catch!” Clint chucks him the gun, and Bucky catches it, already hoping no one near by has their phone on to record this shit.

A robot rushes forward at him, clicking menacingly. He gives himself one more second to regret all of his life choices that brought him to this moment, and then Bucky sighs and shoulders the rifle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!!!!!!
> 
>  
> 
> ??????
> 
>  
> 
> !!???!!?!!??!!!?!!?!!
> 
>  
> 
> To quote Stephen Strange: We're in the endgame, now.
> 
> Tune in next time for Code Red (White and Blue)


	15. #Trending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a busy three day weekend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay I've had this chapter planned since the beginning of this fic, and I KNOW it seems short but believe me it took as long if not longer than a 4-5k word chapter, yikes.
> 
>  
> 
> anyway, enjoy this social media interlude?

* * *

 

 **Seminerds** (Group Chat, October 7, 2016)

[Margot, 11:22 p.m.]: Do you guys think Mr. Barnes is okay?

[Tom, 11:22 p.m.]: im sure its fine.

[Tom, 11:22 p.m.]: i mean

[Tom, 11:23 p.m.] its mr. b??? he pushed a fucking bus with his hands. hes ok

[Margot, 11:24 p.m.]: That isn’t what I meant, Myers.

[Margot, 11:24 p.m.]: Does anyone else think he’ll get in trouble?

[Jayden, 11:25 p.m.]: hes trending.

[Jayden, 11:25 p.m.]: go look

[Tom, 11:26 p.m.]: shit

[Shana, 11:26 p.m.]: someones snap story got picked up by aje and bbc and nbc nightly news….

[Tom, 11:26 p.m.]: double shit

[Shana, 11:26 p.m.]: not pointing any fingers

[Shana 11:26 p.m.]: 👆🏽👆🏽👆🏽👆🏽

[Tom, 11:27 p.m.]: SHIT

[Christophe, 11:27 p.m.]: #newavenger

[Christophe, 11:27 p.m.]: thats the dumbest thing ive ever seen

[Margot, 11:27 p.m.]: Anyone with eyes can tell those pictures are of Mr. Barnes!

[Margot, 11:27 p.m.]: I mean, does the school know that he’s ...

[Shana, 11:28 p.m.]: Powered? probs not

[Tom, 11:28 p.m.]: wait

[Tom, 11:28 p.m.]: WAIT

[Margot, 11:28 p.m.]: We’re waiting, dumbass.

[Christophe, 11:29 p.m.]: tada! 

[Christophe, 11:29 p.m.]: 

[Marza, 11:29 p.m.]: i open the gd group chat and see this shit? fuck u, chris

[Tom, 11:29 p.m.]: what if when mr. b was out last year he was getting secretly experimented on by like the govt or sum shit and then when he came bck he was like powered & thats y he didnt come back to school after he was ‘sick’ bc like he wasnt sick he was SUPER now & he had to hide it from all of us bc the us govt wanted to experiment on him sum more & he had to pretend not to be powered but his bf was all bb no i love u and bb ill be there 4 u, u gotta go bck to work bc the kids need u they the future & ur my future & THEN mr b was like bb i gotta go to wrk bc i love my kids esp. tom bc hes the best

[Marza, 11:30 p.m.]: …

[Shana, 11:30 p.m.]: …

[Tom, 11:31 p.m.]: and THATS how he became Captain Barnes!

[Margot, 11:31 p.m.]: Why is he a Captain?

[Tom, 11:31 p.m.]: bc he married capt america

[Tom, 11:31 p.m.]: duh

[Margot, 11:32 p.m.]: I don’t even know where to start.

[Marza, 11:32 p.m.]: got a tinfoil hat to go with all that weird shit, tom?

[Shana, 11:33 p.m.]: I mean, it’s not the weirdest thing to think tht Mr. B got his powers when he was out last year.

[Margot, 11:33 p.m.]: Shana!

[Shana, 11:33 p.m.]: what? js it makes sense, yk?

[Elisa, 11:34 p.m.]: this is what i get for falling asleep at 7

[Elisa, 11:34 p.m.]: anyone elses parentals going loco?

[Jayden, 11:35 p.m.]: GIRL u dont even know

[Marza, 11:35 p.m.]: somehow i got grounded/??????!??!?!

[Marza, 11:35 p.m.]: bc i was standing TOO CLOSE TO THE ROBOTS

[Marza, 11:35 p.m.]: OK, BUT LIKE, WHERE WAS I SUPPOSED TO STAND, MOM

[Margot, 11:35 p.m.]: mine took my phone, I feel you. Txting from my comp rn

[Tom, 11:36 p.m.]: margot… is grounded ???!!!???

[Tom, 11:36 p.m.]: … i … i died today didnt i

[Margot, 11:36 p.m.]: Um.

[Tom, 11:36 p.m.]: is that you jesus?

[Margot, 11:36 p.m.]: Fuck off, Thomas.

[Shana, 11:36 p.m.]: theres a press conf tmrw

[Shana, 11:36 p.m.]: if youre not grounded come over and well watch

[Elisa, 11:37 p.m.]: I’ll be there

[Tom, 11:37 p.m.]: I’m in

[Christophe, 11:37]: WHY IS NO ONE TALKING ABOUT MY BOI?

[Christophe, 11:38 p.m.]: I WORKED HARD ON HIM

[Christophe, 11:38 p.m.]: WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO TELL HIM?

***

Twitter Highlights, October 8-9, 2016

**ScroogeMcDork (@ChristopheRainbob)**

 

> @EverhartChristine exCUSE but you dont know the facts. mr. barnes saved our LIVES. what good have you ever done? (Oct. 8, 2016 1:26 p.m.)

 

 **Mazing Margot (@MargotWilliamsEsq)**  

> @EverhartChristine aren’t you the person who tried to muckrake all over Mr. Barnes and @CaptainAmerica earlier this year? Is your career really that sad and dependent on other ppl’s lives that you have to make things up to be relevant? (Oct. 8, 2016, 1:27 p.m.)

 

 **Tonya Samson (@MrsSamsonBMS)**  

> @EverhartChristine @CSNBCNightly @SHIELDOfficial James Buchanan Barnes is a treasured part of our faculty AND a member of our @BMSEagles family. He has contributed much to our community in the years he’s been a teacher here, and today’s news changes nothing. (Oct. 8, 2016, 3:45 p.m.)

 

**Olivia Thomas (@OliveT2018)**

 

> #teachersarealreadysuper #supportmrbarnes  

**Mazing Margot (@MargotWilliamsEsq)**

  

> (RT: @OliveT2018…) C’mon guys, let’s make sassy teacher barnes trend. Share ur favorite memory of mr. barnes @BMSEagles @EaglesFam @BrooklynPride #teachersarealreadysuper (Oct. 9, 2016, 1:00 a.m.)

 

 **Raul Ernest (@RaulErnestoReyes97)**  

> **(1/2)** James Barnes saved my life. Im not kidding - I graduated two years ago, & Mr. B was barely older than I was. But he realized me & my sister had to move to a homeless shelter

 

 **Raul Ernest (@RaulErnestoReyes97)**  

> **(2/2)** & he got a bunch of other teachers to pool their $$ and get a hotel room for us for the rest of the year. #teachersarealreadysuper (Oct. 9, 2016, 8:01 a.m.)

 

**Elisa Says (@ElisaMakesFunnyThings18)**

> Mr. Barnes was the first person I told about my panic attacks. He wasnt the last. But he was the first to listen, & ill be graduating in ‘18 bc of him #teachersarealreadysuper (Oct. 9, 2016, 8:15 a.m.)

 

 **Sam Wilson (@SamWilsonFalcon)**  

>  @TheRealDonaldTrump Man I don’t know how you can even type with that orange wig blocking your vision but believe me when I say, step OFF of James Barnes. #weknowwhotherealdangertosocietyis (Oct. 9, 2016, 9:20 a.m.)

***

 **To** : JamesBBarnes@BMS.edu.net

 **From** : MargotWilliams@gmail.com

 **Subject** : Homework due Oct. 11

 **Date** : October 9, 2016

_Hey, Mr. Barnes,_

_So I don’t have a question about homework. I know that’s sneaky, but I figured you might not read an email that was like MR. BARNES ARE YOU OKAY?_

_We all want to know though if you’re okay and if there’s anything we can do. I hope you aren’t watching the news, but if you are, know that NO ONE here wants you to leave. My mom is threatening to sue everyone. Like. Everyone. She’s going to sue the Dept of Defense and Trump and Christine Everhart, and I think the guy who invented SnapChat._

_Anyway, I wanted to see if you were okay. We understand if we won’t see you on Tuesday, but I hope you know that we really, really want to see you, no matter what._

_Margot W._

 

***

The Huffington Post

_October 9, 2016, 9:15 a.m._

_Protesters_ _gather outside Avengers Tower in light of the news of a secret Avenger._

While some have gathered to demand answers to hovering questions, most have gathered to show their support of the supposed alter ego of the Secret Avenger: James Buchanan Barnes, a history teacher from Brooklyn who, by all accounts, is a quiet, thoughtful man.

A quiet thoughtful man who, before this point, was known mostly for his service to his small Brooklyn community, and to those in the know, as Captain America’s secret lover. While the public has speculated for months over the rumors, and then confirmation, of Captain America’s bisexuality, it wasn’t until the photos of the two passionately embracing post-battle emerged after the October 7 attack on the Avengers Museum that Captain America’s lover was clearly shown to be a man.

A man who certainly resembles James Buchanan Barnes.

Before we delve into the strange and muddled past of Mr. Barnes, it is important to note what people in his life think of him. One such person is Tom Myers, who stood outside Avengers Tower for two hours this morning with a homemade sign proclaiming “Barnes Belongs in a Classroom, Not in the News.”

When asked if he thought the protesters would irritate the building owner (Anthony Stark, the short-tempered billionaire who funds the Avengers), Myers had only this to say: “Well, his wife brought us snacks an hour ago, so I think we’re cool.”

***

 **Seminerds** (Group Chat, October 9, 2016)

[Marza, 12:35 p.m.]: MR. BARNES IS IN DC

[Margot, 12:35 p.m.]: Wait, what?

[Elisa, 12:35 p.m.]: Yeah, what?

[Tom, 12:35 p.m.]: did u guys see I was in the news????!

[Margot, 12:36 p.m.]: Marzie, how do you know that?

[Marza, 12:36 p.m.]: OMG

[Marza, 12:36 p.m.]: OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG

[Christophe, 12:36 p.m.]: how do you know?!

[Marza, 12:36 p.m.]: BECAUSE THERE’S A VIDEO OF HIM DECAPITATING A ROBOT WITH HIS BARE HANDS

[Marza, 12:37 p.m.]: LOOK!!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmmmMMMMMMM
> 
>  
> 
> Steve's POV up next


	16. Code Red (White and Blue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Tony go to their meeting with the oversight committee.
> 
> It doesn't go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (wiggles back into existence after the busiest two weeks of my life with an apology and ~5000 words of plot)
> 
>  
> 
>  **warning**   
> Here’s where the “brief deseruming” tag from the overall tags kicks in as a heads up!

Steve fusses with the buttons on his dress uniform for a few tense moments while Tony finishes up a phone call with Happy; the humidity of D.C. is not terribly lessened by the approach of autumn, and he regrets the stiff fabric of his uniform at the moment. But, Pepper had insisted on his wearing it - something about appearances, and intimidation, and charisma - and honestly, he’s worn a uniform in much more uncomfortable settings before. 

A trench, for one. An icy grave, for another.

Besides, he doesn’t mind the uniform, not when Bucky makes  _ that  _ face when he wears it, the face that does a lot to wipe away several, prominent insecurities Steve has. Things have been better since he started going to therapy, but he still struggles with the idea of inhabiting this body, this much too large body, when he still feels so small all the time. It can’t be denied that the difficulty of inhabiting a body that doesn’t feel like his own is significantly helped when Bucky  _ looks  _ at this body with his eyes wide, his cheeks pink, his mouth twisting into a smirk that begs Steve to kiss it off. 

Tony turns around, mid-phone call, and squints at him. He covers the mouthpiece a second later and whisper, “Stop thinking about Barnes and get your head in the game, Rogers.”

“How did you know I was--”

Tony turns around again, waving irritably at Steve while he responds rapid-fire to one of Happy’s questions, something about  _ nanotech,  _ and  _ optic,  _ and some other words Steve is definitely sure Tony definitely made up.

Ass.

He eyes the building in the distance, a block and a half away, the glare of the late morning sun reflecting painfully off the government buildings that tower overhead. Steve can’t entirely say that he likes the capitol; he also can’t say that he hates it either, given that he met Bucky not even a fifteen minute sprint from where he’s standing. 

With any sort of luck, Bucky’s where Steve wants him to be, wrapped up in a blanket in bed, enjoying the rest of the long weekend so he can prepare himself mentally and emotionally for school on Tuesday (because of course Bucky’s going back to school even after that media nightmare; it’s one of the reasons he and Steve get along so well, after all. They’re both disasters who don’t know when to quit).

Steve doesn’t want to think about what happens on Tuesday when Bucky has to go back to work, and exposes himself once more to the outside world, but for now, he’s safe in their bedroom in Manhattan, or maybe even Brooklyn (an image Steve approves on, on every level, Bucky asleep in the bed Steve Rogers picked out, not Bucky waiting in a bed that was given to Captain America with fifteen thousand caveats), with JARVIS keeping watch while Steve is away.

Any further reflection or wistful thinking Steve might have partaken in becomes lost when Tony hangs up the phone with a dramatic sigh - and thank God Tony wasn’t alive in the forties, he would have too much fun slamming down the receiver on a rotary phone after a bad call, something Steven can certainly envision because it was one of Howard’s favorite flairs - and he snaps his fingers at Steve.

“Follow me, Cap.”

Steve raises his eyebrows but falls in step next to Tony. “Wasn’t aware I was taking orders from you, Tony,” he says carefully. 

After all, they’re here because Steve has a vested interest in this shadow committee. He understands that Tony would care about who was calling the shots of their missions, and he knows that Tony cares about Bucky, thinks of him as family if he’s not mistaken, but at the same time … Tony elbowed his way into this meeting (right after Steve had done the lion’s share of elbowing already). 

“I woulda thought a guy like you was used to taking orders,” Tony snarks back, smirking at Steve as he pushes his expensive, designer sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. “Aren’t you familiar with this whole shindig? I, the handsome and elusive billionaire, am assisted by you, the pretty, talking monkey the US government built all those decades ago and then lost in an iceberg?” 

They’ve reached the building that houses the office they’re supposed to meet in - it’s fairly innocuous, one of dozens of buildings with tinted windows, hidden garage entrances, and a lack of signage outside denoting its purpose and affiliation - but Steve makes no effort to enter, glaring at Tony so hard he swears he feels the line form with permanence between his eyebrows.

“Pardon me, Stark.” His voice is cold, to mask the very real edge of hurt he feels. 

Tony could easily be riffing after a bad phone call, letting off steam... _ but you didn’t do that to a team member _ . Not right before a potentially hostile situation where you were supposed to have each other’s backs and not smack each other with their worst fears and inadequacies. 

“No need to be so frosty,” Tony quips, and then laughs obnoxiously. “Frosty - get it, grandpa?” He slaps Steve on the arm, and for a brief, delirious moment, Steve thinks about slapping Tony back. Without the suit, there’s a good chance Tony will go flying through the glass front of the building. 

Before he can do much more than glare, Tony jabs his sharp elbow into Steve’s ribs and then gestures at the front door. “Fury always said I was bad at playing with others. But I’m not so sure that’s true.” He glances at Steve for half a beat too long for it to really be a glance. “I find that I work best … in front of an audience.”

Steve blinks, looks up at the doors and then sees a camera, hidden but very present, tucked up along the top of the doorframe. They’re being watched; and they’ve probably  _ been  _ watched since they got out of the car. And, for whatever reason, Tony wants the person on the other end of that camera to think they aren’t friends.

It makes the hurt sting less, but Steve can’t help the sting. Something to work on in therapy, no doubt. 

“After you, Stark,” Steve spits out through clenched teeth, the animosity towards Tony faked, the anxiety and building irritation he feels definitely not faked.

Tony smirks at him, painfully reminiscent of the first time they met, back when aliens were coming out of the sky, and Tony was still recovering from alcoholism and reeling from the hurts laid out by his father, and Steve was still recovering from the ice and reeling from the loss of Peggy and the world he’d known. Things are different now - Steve has to keep repeating it to himself - Tony’s only acting the asshole for reasons unknown (reasons Steve really, really wishes he knew,  _ this is why they talk about things beforehand, Tony _ ), but he’s got the unshakeable feeling that he maybe should have stayed in New York with Bucky after all.

The elevator ride is quick, and Tony at least spares him the ribbing when he flinches at the way it lurches up too fast, a sensory memory hitting him of the last time he was in an uncomfortable elevator ride in D.C. When the doors open, a sharply dressed young woman with a neutral expression greets them and leads them down an oddly neutral hallway with low lighting. Steve tries his best not to crane his neck and get a better look of the layout of the floor, but his soldier’s instinct is hard to quash, and he ends up doing just that, falling a step or two behind Tony as he memorizes the floor plan. 

Forty one and a half feet away from the elevator, they take a right, and they’re led to an office with bullet-proof glass windows. 

The assistant opens the door for them and gestures them to go inside, into the waiting room of the office. “Make yourself at home,” she says distantly, and walks away before they can respond.

Tony lifts his eyebrows at Steve and lets his breath out in one, sharp puff. 

“Not exactly the welcome wagon, huh?” Tony grabs a candy dish from a small table near the door and examines it critically. “They don’t even have lemon drops.”

“Tony, now’s not the time to be considering the candy options-”

“Live a little, Cap,” Tony tosses a peppermint in his mouth and crunches it obnoxiously before tilting the dish towards Steve. “Want one? Or will it hurt your dentures?”

“What’s up your ass today, Stark?” Steve snaps, letting his anxiety shape itself into anger in his voice.

“What’s up my ass?” Tony tosses the dish down with an irritated laugh. “What’s up my ass,  _ Rogers,  _ is the fact that you couldn’t keep it in your pants long enough to consider what dragging a  _ schoolteacher  _ into our world would do to him - or do to the team!”

“You’ve got some nerve,” Steve begins, stalking forward to loom over Tony, bristling in suddenly real indignation, “Like you didn’t do the same to Pepper!”

“Pepper is my wife.” Tony shoves Steve’s chest, hard enough to look like it was out of anger to anyone watching, not hard enough to really even register as a push to Steve, “She’s my  _ family,  _ Steve. You - you trying to get it on with a hot, young piece of--”

Steve grabs Tony by the front of his very expensive shirt and hauls him close, pulling him up onto his toes.

“Finish the sentence.” He no longer has to fake the rage in his voice. “Go on. Finish it.”

“James Barnes doesn’t belong with you,” Tony hisses, his face twisted up in disdain. His eyes though, are soft. Apologetic. “You know it’s just borrowed time.”

Steve’s hand loosens its grip, his stomach plummeting, when the doors leading deeper into the office swing open without warning; he lets go of Tony for real and they take a step back from each other, both glowering. Steve’s heart feels like he’d run a marathon distance in his old body, and Tony’s out of breath too at his side. 

“Mr. Stark.” A woman in her fifties looks genuinely surprised to see their current state. “Captain Rogers. Please, come in.”

Steve blinks, recognizing her face, but his ears are echoing too much with Tony’s sharp words to place the name for a few seconds. 

“Eleanor Hawley?” He takes a step forward and holds out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, ma’am.”

“I’m surprised you would feel that way, given the unpleasantness of our last meeting.” Hawley smiles warmly and shakes his hand, and some of Steve’s anxiety fades. 

Eleanor had been just as blindsided as himself at Project Insight - Nat had worn her face to infiltrate the meeting with Hydra leaders - and they’d been very thorough in their post-op examination of her records. She had no connection to Hydra, passed a hundred and one lie detector tests, and is generally an all-around excellent public servant. 

So, if she’s here, it can’t be that bad.

Tony greets Hawley more flippantly, a fake salute followed by a smirk, and Steve has to repeat to himself over and over again that Tony’s probably doing this for a reason, this asshole act that he hasn’t seen in almost five years, because if there’s only thing Steve  _ really  _ can’t stand, it’s someone disrespecting a woman. Hawley, to her credit, doesn’t respond to his rude behavior either, and simply leads them into a conference room with three others sitting around it.

“Captain, Mr. Stark, may I introduce the rest of the Supered People’s Oversight Committee.”

“SPOC?” Tony snorts, ignoring the men at the table and instead running his hand along the fancy looking screen that’s mounted to the wall. “Live long and prosper?”

“George Clinton,” a man with salt and pepper hair nods at Steve, and Tony waggles his fingers at him, “Jeff Mace,” a handsome, younger man nods, and Steve eyes him more warily, noting his posture and build. Former military, he’s sure. “And, George Tarleton.”

The last man stands from the table, a greasy smile in place. His hand immediately extends to Tony, who takes it, blinking at him behind his frames - the second he releases him, Tony pulls hand sanitizer out of his pocket and applies it. 

“Tarleton.” Steve frowns at him, remembering the look of anguish on Bruce’s face when his name had come up back in the Tower. The scientist turns to him now, his hand extended. Steve chooses to ignore it.  “I believe you know my colleague. Dr. Banner.”

Tony glances at him incredulously, but Steve barely pays him any mind, just pulls himself up to his full height, something he tries not to do off the battlefield, and glares down at Tarleton, who seems unbothered by the reference to Bruce. 

“Ah, Bruce, a fine mind that one.” Tarleton smirks and gestures for Tony and Steve to sit across from them at the table. Once they’re settled, Tarleton leans forward with a gleam in his eye. “His research was important, if flawed. When one knows the consequences of his research though, the disaster that ensued is a small price to pay to try to replicate the success that is, well,  _ you,  _ Captain Rogers.”

Steve’s been poked and prodded and generally treated like meat since the early forties, but it doesn’t mean he appreciates the way Tarleton’s looking at him right now. 

“Right.” Steve sits back in his chair and folds his arms over his chest, his knuckles cracking ominously. “So. Mr. Tarleton--”

“Dr. Tarleton, if you don’t mind--” 

Steve swears he sees Jeff Mace roll his eyes.

“Tarleton. We understand you have an interest in a civilian who may have powers.”

“Cutting right to the chase. I appreciate that.” Tarleton looks like he does not, in fact, appreciate that.

“A civilian?” George Clinton leans forward this time, and Tony does nothing more than study his nails casually. “You call a man with that level of marksmanship and strength to rival your own a  _ civilian _ ?”

“Well, yes,” Steve snaps, turning to glare at the man, his neck flushing with heat born of anger, “Considering he has no military connection, no interest in politics, and is gainfully employed in the education system. I’d say that means he’s a civilian.”

“Mr. Barnes” - Steve grits his teeth at the sound of Bucky’s name in Clinton’s mouth - “is an unknown quantity, Captain, surely you can appreciate that.”

“No, I really can’t.” Steve leans forward, resting his arms on the table, the chair creaking under the shift of his weight. “I know plenty about him, and I know he doesn’t want any part of the superhero business. Nor is he a threat to national security. And, actually, I’d like to know what it is you’d like to do with  _ Mr. Barnes. _ ”

He aims the last comment at Tarleton, who’s still examining Steve with all the glee of a cruel boy on the schoolyard with an ant under a magnifying glass. Steve has an extensive knowledge of bullies and their behavior by this point in his too long life, and Tarleton is a bully - he’d be able to tell even without Bruce’s heart-wrenching story echoing in his heart. Combined with his wistful comment on the  _ success  _ of Steve’s experiment, there’s no doubt that Bucky needs to be as far away as possible from this man, and this committee.

“Do with him?” Tarleton’s smile is forced now. “You make us sound like villains, Captain.”

“All we want to know,” Mace speaks now, a hand extended to Tarleton, effectively cutting him off. Tarleton glowers at the larger man, something else that Steve notices. “Is if Mr. Barnes is going to cause any problems for us, or the community surrounding him, in the coming years. There are actually many cases of supered people living among others successfully.” He lifts an eyebrow at Clinton and Tarleton. “Something the committee is well aware of. We would just need to monitor him.”

“He hasn’t done anything wrong,” Steve argues. “Why monitor him at all?”

“The government monitors everyone these days, Stevie, where’ve you been?” Tony elbows him with a sharp smile. “What’s the harm in a little surveillance?”

“The harm is Buck-- Mr. Barnes deserves a private life.” Steve looks at Eleanor imploringly. “Everything he’s done, the … public display of his powers, was to defend people. Children.”

“And he did so in a very public way, as you said.” Eleanor gives him an apologetic smile. “The public does need to know that the government has a handle on supered people - and Mr. Barnes’ behavior on Friday was certainly altruistic, no one could deny that. But it  _ could  _ have gone much, much worse, for himself, and for those children. We are of the opinion that he, and all supered people, do need a level of oversight, and that...Mr. Barnes would benefit from operating under the umbrella of the Avengers Initiative.”

“He works for the New York City public school system.” Steve clenches his fist until the knuckles crack, and he glares at each member of the committee in turn. “He doesn’t need another umbrella. And -” He talks over Clinton, who’d tried to open his mouth and interrupt him, “What happened that day was an anomaly. Mr. Barnes didn’t do anything another teacher wouldn’t have done: there have been numerous cases where teachers defended their students at risk to their personal safety. It shouldn’t be any different because Bu-Mr. Barnes happens to have powers.”

“Powers that we don’t know the extent of,” Tarleton says coldly. “Powers that haven’t been appropriately monitored or tested.”

“Tony tested them.” Steve sits back heavily in his chair and turns to Tony. “Tell them what you found.”

“I found…” Tony fiddles with something in his hands, a small, metallic disk, “Well, my findings were inconclusive.”

“We would very much like to see a copy of those findings,” Tarleton says. “And we would like to run a few experiments of our own.”

Steve stands up so quickly, his chair flies out from behind him. “You will not,” he spits out, “experiment on James Barnes. He’s been through enough--”

“Tests,” Clinton corrects, holding up his hands in a pacifying way, “We only want to run some tests--”

Tarleton stands up and smirks up at Steve. “We want a copy of the results of Mr. Stark’s tests, and we would like to compare them to the records we seized from the Hydra laboratory that was destroyed in upstate New York earlier this year.”

Steve has to remind himself that it would be a very, very bad idea to break Tarleton’s face. 

“Hang on.” Tony holds a finger up. “I really don’t give out my information that easily, especially not to someone who isn’t even a Nigerian prince. Why should I give you medical information of a civilian that was obtained on private property?”

“A civilian who hasn’t hurt  _ anyone, _ ” Steve adds, settling slightly now that he knows Tony’s going to have his back.

Tarleton’s smirk doesn’t go away (Steve can’t figure out how Bruce didn’t Hulk out on him and smack the smirk off his face forever), and dread creeps up his spine again. 

“Try telling that pretty little lie to the twenty-eight men, found slaughtered in the basement of that facility-”

“-Those were Nazis who were trying to kill him-”

“-A facility that was attempting to master mind control of Mr. Barnes - something they were very close to succeeding in if their records are any indication. How do you know - how do you  _ really  _ know, Captain Rogers, that they weren’t successful?”

Steve’s going to be sick, but he levels another powerful glare at Tarleton. “I know they weren’t.”

“Really? You feel comfortable sleeping next to a man who might have been programmed to kill you?”

“He wasn’t.”

“Could you please reason with your colleague, Mr. Stark?” Clinton directs his question right at Tony, who hasn’t stood up, but hasn’t resumed his study of his nails either. He’s been watching the shouting match with the sort of interest most people reserved for sporting events. 

“Pardon?” Tony glances over at Clinton.

“Could you please tell Captain Rogers that he’s making a grave mistake in not considering all his options?”

“I think we need to appreciate that Captain Rogers has a unique relationship with Mr. Barnes,” Hawley breaks in, frowning at Clinton and Tarleton. “And what we’re asking  _ does  _ sound frightening to someone who certainly has Mr. Barnes’s best interests at heart.”

“But we don’t know Mr. Barnes’s best interests because he’s  _ not here, _ Eleanor,” Mace points out.

“Like I’d like you anywhere near him,” Steve snarls, slamming his hand down on the table.

“No need to be hostile, Captain,” Tarleton looks to Tony now. “Mr. Stark, as a businessman, surely you understand the importance of considering all outcomes.”

Tony nods slowly, and Steve glares down at him in betrayal. “I do.” He rubs his goatee thoughtfully. “Would these tests take place here or at the Tower--”

“Stark, you can’t be serious.” Steve sinks back down in his chair. 

If Tony doesn’t actually have their back … He can run. He can - he can convince Bucky to run, they can leave, fuck off to who knows where, change their identities, live out in the wilderness of Canada, and Bucky can teach in a one room schoolhouse with no internet access and it will be  _ fine,  _ no one will ever touch him again --  

 “Because I think I’d prefer to have one of Stark Industries’ doctors on hand for the examination,” Tony continues, ignoring Steve.

“Of course,” Tarleton’s greasy smile is back now.

“Excuse me?” Steve can hear the panic in his voice. “No, Bucky won’t consent to this, you can’t bully him into it-”

“George, please,” Eleanor frowns at Tarleton.

“I won’t let you--”

“The adults are talking, Cap.” Tony stands and smooths out imaginary lines from his suit. “Dr. Tarleton, could we continue this conversation somewhere else?”

“Of course,” Tarleton stands as well and gestures to the door. “Follow me to my personal office, Mr. Stark.”

Tony pats Steve on the head as he walks by. “Behave, Rogers.”

Then, he’s gone, and Steve’s left with three-fourths of the committee that’s most likely trying to take Bucky away from him. 

While they sit awkwardly in silence for a few minutes, Steve checks the clock and sees that it’s noon; he isn’t sure how the day has gone to shit so quickly, but he wishes he could find the eject on this situation sooner rather than later. 

“I should,” he stands and gestures to the door, “See what they’re talking about.”

“Captain Rogers,” Eleanor smiles at him tightly. “I want to assure you that this meeting was not called to upset you, or Mr. Barnes. We … we do have concerns, yes, but we also have optimism that we can approach a solution with little to no disruption to Mr. Barnes’s normal life.”

“He can’t have a normal life,” Mace shakes his head. “Not anymore. And I know it’s difficult to hear, but the life James Barnes knew before is gone. I think we can help him transition more successfully, but--”

“--But teaching is his life.” Steve sits back down and wipes a hand over his face. “My whole life, I wanted to fight. I lied and cheated trying to become a soldier, and volunteered myself for an experiment that almost certainly should have killed me just for the chance to fight. I am a soldier, and I am Captain America. This is part of my life, and my identity. Teaching is part of my partner’s life, and it’s his identity. You don’t understand what you’re asking for; he’ll never be part of the Avengers, because he isn’t a fighter.”

“Do you really think that’s true?” Clinton asks.

“I know it’s true.” Steve sighs heavily and rubs his jaw. “Bucky hates fighting, and I’ve seen him cry over roadkill. He’s - he’s a good man. He’s better than all of us, and he doesn’t deserve to be forced into this life because he happens to have some talents most people don’t.”

“He doesn’t like to fight?” Clinton repeats.

“That’s what I said.” Steve glares at him, jaw tight, arms crossed again. “He avoids it when he can. Making him join a team of superheroes so he can spend the rest of his life fighting when he could be helping people as a teacher would be cruel.”

“Are you sure that Barnes does not enjoy fighting?” Clinton’s smiling like he knows a secret, and Steve wonders where the hell Tony went, why he’s been gone for so long. 

“I’m positive.”

“Could you please turn on the television?” Clinton asks Mace politely. 

Mace shoots him a confused look, but grabs a remote from under the table and points it at the screen Tony had admired when they walked in. 

“I got an alert on my watch a few minutes ago,” Clinton says breezily gesturing at the screen. “Channel Four, if you would.” He smirks at Steve before pointing at the television. “Could you please tell me if that’s what  _ avoiding a fight  _ looks like?”

When Steve looks over at the screen, irritated by the smugness in Clinton’s voice, he does a double take. 

It’s Bucky.

Specifically, Bucky standing on the back of a moving pickup truck he hasn’t seen before, holding a rifle in his hands, several more guns strapped to his back, picking off lizard-robots (where the hell are those things coming from, anyway) that are sprinting alongside the truck. His hair is tied back from his face, he’s wearing a bulletproof vest, and there’s a look of grim determination on his face that Steve shouldn’t find so attractive when anxiety is clawing at his throat like this.

“Where is this?” Steve asks hoarsely.

“Two miles away from here,” Eleanor answers, sounding shocked.

Steve fights the urge to slap his forehead in exasperation. 

“I wonder where Mr. Barnes got all those guns, if he’s someone who...avoids a fight.” Clinton leans back in his chair with a look of self-satisfaction so potent, it makes Steve’s blood boil. “Oh, wait, no, that’s another one of your associates driving that vehicle, Captain. I believe that’s Clint Barton?” 

Steve squints at the screen; it’s definitely Clint driving the definitely stolen pickup truck. He doesn’t know what to say, but he’s spared figuring it out when the door bursts open a second later, and two armed guards throw Tony, bleeding from the temple and lip, into the room.

“Hey, Cap.” He smiles feebly and then groans, his bound hands going to cradle his head. “Miss me?’

“Tony?” Steve stands and rushes over to him. “What happened?”

“What happened is  _ your friend  _ tried to hack our systems.” Tarleton steps over Tony’s feet and walks to the television screen. He reaches behind the monitor and pulls out a delicate silver disc, not unlike the one Tony had been fiddling with at the conference table. “Is that Mr. Barnes? Making the news? Fascinating.”

He turns back to Steve, who’s trying to stop Tony’s head from bleeding, and drops the bug, crushing it under his foot. 

“You know what they say about curiosity,” Tony mumbles, sitting upright with Steve’s help. “But I did find something very interesting about our friends, the Georges here.”

“What’s that?” Steve’s suddenly, achingly aware of the lack of his shield, the absence of his weight at his back making his chest tighten with anxiety. He doesn’t know how to get out of this room while protecting Tony. 

“They have a secondary employer.” Tony groans and pats Steve on the arm. “They work for AIM, Steve.”

It’s the sound of his first name in Tony’s mouth that surprises him at first, but then the information sets in.

“They  _ what _ ?”

He looks over his shoulder wildly at Eleanor, who’d stood up in shock when Tony had been thrown into the room. She hasn’t moved.

Neither, for that matter, has Jeff Mace. 

They’re both staring off into space, frozen, chillingly still.

“What did you do to them?” Steve can’t watch the television screen to see if Bucky’s still successfully fighting off the robot hoard that’s attacking him and Clint. 

“Nothing.” Tarleton presses a button on his watch, and Eleanor and Jeff collapse. “Just some more of my toys.”

“They’re AI,” Tony whispers. “They were never here, Cap. I sent the info to Happy already, but-”

“But we have to get out of here.” Steve eyes the door, blocked by six more guards, and up at Tarleton, who doesn’t look all that strong. But, if he’s learned one thing over and over again in the past and the future, it’s that looks can be deceiving. 

“Leave?” Tarleton smirks down at him and Tony, gesturing at a guard to hand him a black briefcase. “But Captain, we’re just getting started.”

Tarleton pulls out a small, silver gun from the briefcase and points at Tony; Steve immediately stands, blocking Tony like a shield, but Tarleton just laughs.

A blink later, and Steve realizes his error - Tarleton had never been aiming for Tony. 

He watches, the world slowing down to slow-motion, as Tarleton pulls the trigger; he waits for the crush of impact of a bullet, but it never comes. 

Instead, a strange light fills his vision, and it’s pain, waves of pain that fill him up and threaten to pull him under, drown him better than the ocean ever could -

And then everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ?????
> 
>  
> 
> I wonder how Bucky's going to respond to this development?


	17. Mr. Barnes Goes to Washington

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Clint attempt their rescue mission but have to fight through the hoards of robotic minions on the way; Tony and Steve face an unexpected issue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes hello i am sorry for the long wait, i was in and out of the hospital last week, and am still getting back up to speed!!!
> 
> With that apology in mind, here's some **warnings** for the chapter:
> 
> General, comic book violence (nongraphic)  
> Asthma attack suffered by a character  
> References to nausea/vomiting/symptoms of hypoglycemia  
> A baddie messes with someone's biology without permission (deseruming of Steve is confirmed)
> 
>  _Notes_  
>  There's a POV shift halfway through the chapter, marked by **
> 
> Lots of action this chapter, and I'm definitely a "Feelings" author, so I'm sorry if things are jumbly

“Can't this thing go any faster?” 

Bucky kicks the window to the cab of the truck ineffectively; he can see Clint reach out the driver’s side window to flip him off before the hand disappears again. 

“I’ll take that as a no.” 

He reloads the rifle he’d managed to snag from the car they’d had to abandon ten miles back, and by the time he’s reshouldering it, Clint’s hand is outside the truck again -- this time, holding a pistol that he’s using to pick off robotic lizards that are trying to gnaw at the front left tire. 

“This has got to be the worst three-day-weekend of my life,” Bucky snaps, crouching down and throwing a grenade behind the truck as hard as he can. 

It detonates in the middle of the hoard, taking out dozens of the fuckers, and Bucky can’t even feel a thrill of success because he has to reshoulder the rifle and start shooting again: this time he’s aiming for, yeah, the driver’s side window, where Clint is engaged in a _very_ ill-advised tug-of-war with a robot lizard over his gun.

“Just let him take it!” Bucky shouts, running up the bed of the truck to pound on the hood of the cab. “Oi! Idiot! Let! The! Robot! Take! It!”

“But it’s my favorite gun!” Clint shouts back, muffled somewhat by the cab of the trunk, and Bucky watches in complete disbelief as the lizard starts to shred the armored wrist guards Clint wears. 

“Fuck no.” Bucky grips the cab with his fingertips of his right hand and swings off the bed of the truck to punch Clint, hard, in the back of his arm. 

Clint releases the gun, finally, and the gun and the lizard go flying away from the speeding truck, becoming nothing more than a streak on the GW parkway. 

“Aw, Glock, no,” Clint mutters, barely audible over the rush of wind in Bucky’s ears.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” he promises, and that’s right before another robot-lizard-fucker jumps on the truck and starts to gnaw on the back of his leg. “What the f-”

The rifle’s no good at this close range, and Bucky has _not_ been keeping a knife on his person the way Clint’s always telling him to, and _no,_ he hasn’t been practicing the flips he’s supposed to be practicing, so, no, he won’t be taking the KA-Bar out of the side pocket of this vest Clint was so insistent he wear on this mission that’s already been fucked up beyond all belief.

“Use your knife!” Clint hollers, and Bucky snorts because he’s already thought of that, and also because the robot-lizard-fucker is trying to eat his fucking thigh like it’s on the menu at Popeyes.

So, he does the next best thing.

He wrestles the fucker.

The truck’s slowing down this point, Clint no longer careening down a major thoroughfare, but rather winding through a crowded block of DC traffic. The archer slams on the brakes ten feet short of an intersection, sending Bucky and the robot-lizard he’s wrestling forward, slamming into the cab of the truck, and they both fall, Bucky with a grunt, and the robot with a noise that sounds like a computer glitch.

They both pop back up a second later, already re-engaged in their fight, and Bucky, desperate for something to hold onto, his hands sliding down the robot’s arms and sides uselessly, grabs the thing by the head, and on some inexplicably instinct, tugs; he tugs, using his full strength in a way he hasn’t since he ripped the handle clean off the bathroom sink all those months ago.

There’s the unmistakable sound of metal screeching, an unholy and unpleasant sound that rings out through the city block.

The truck stops. Clint stops. Pedestrians stop. The robot stops. Bucky stops.

And then he grins.

He plants his foot square on the robot’s chest, pushing it down more, and, adjusting his grip, he pulls like it’s the end of summer games at camp, and the winner gets a kiss from the counselor of their choice. Bucky pulls and pulls, and two seconds of horrific metallic screeching later, the head of the robot pops clean off.

“Oh, _fuck yes_!” Clint whoops, and they’re moving again. 

Bucky turns, planting his feet sturdily on the bed of the truck, relying on the balance and coordination that he’s taken for granted for almost a decade, the skills and traits that were only enhanced by the knock-off serum, and he grins wildly, proudly, the robot head dangling from his left hand like he’s Judith beheading fuckin’ Holofernes, and he holds it up as a prize, showing it off to the robo-lizards that are still so hellbent on following them through the nation’s capitol.

There’s an odd clicking noise from the hoard, and Bucky has a solid moment to consider that _that probably isn’t a_ good _noise,_ and then more of the robot wannabe-murderers show up, flooding the streets and scattering screaming civilians.

Bucky grabs the gun offered to him through the window of the cab with barely a grunt of thanks to Clint, and he starts to shoot again, gritting his teeth against the strange, grainy feeling of adrenaline combating his typical level of exhaustion.

“There’s too many!” He calls to his friend. “Any more grenades up there?”

“No! I left them in the car!” Clint lets out a creative and mildly disturbing stream of curses that Bucky manages to find amusing even while fighting for their lives. “Fuck! This is why I hate going places without my grenades!”

Bucky aims for the nearest robot clanging over the side of the truck and shoots it neatly through the forehead; the lights of its optical units go out, and it clatters off the side of the car, exploding against the pavement in an arc of gears and viscera.

_What the fuck is in these fucking things?_

“How many times have you had a grenade on your person in my home?” Bucky asks, the idea suddenly striking him, and suddenly becoming much more important than the looming death they’re faced with.

Silence from Clint.

“Barton!” Bucky turns around and crouches. using a precious second to scowl at Clint in the rearview mirror. He bangs on the window of the cab. “Hey! Barton! How often did you have grenades in my home?”

“ _Uhhh._ ” 

Clint’s spared having to answer by a familiar voice coming from overhead.

“You boys need a hand?”

Bucky looks up, already grinning, and shouts in unrestrained excitement and relief at the sight of Sam Wilson, wings fully extended, gliding over the truck.

“Sam!”

“We got this handled!” Clint shouts, punching an approaching robot in the jaw before it can take a chomp out of his elbow. “Aw, fuck, knuckles!”

“Yeah, let me sit back and watch you ‘handle’ this, Barton.” Falcon pulls up from where he’d been flying alongside the truck and peels off, shooting into the left flank of the hoard. 

Bucky begins firing in the right side, and Clint plows forward, cutting a path to the imposing office building that Bucky recognizes from the file Nat slipped him before they pulled away.

_Steve’s in there._

Steve is in that building, and with no idea of what’s happening to him, Bucky’s hit with a wave of renewed purpose. 

“Can you pick me up?” He shouts at Falcon on his next fly-by.

“Do I want to know why?” Falcon loops around and lands on the bed of the truck next to him, the momentum sending the truck swinging for a second. 

“I want you to drop me up there--” Bucky points at the office building, where there are, in fact, multitudes of robot-lizards waiting for their arrival. Sam stares at him like he’s suggested something completely preposterous, like growing a second head on command, or voting for that putrid Cheeto next month.

“You two,” Sam shakes his head in disbelief, “I swear, you two fully deserve each other.”

“Is that a no?” Bucky asks, the truck lurching under their feet as Clint careens towards the building, lizards falling under the wheels.

“Yes, it’s a no!” Sam puts a hand to his forehead. “Bunch of stupid beefy superheroes thinking they can get dropped into a clusterfuck like that and then expect me to drag their asses right back out! No, I am _not_ dropping you into the middle of a fucking lizard-android army!”

“Technically,” Bucky said, shooting the lizard that was creeping up behind Sam, “Androids are robots that look like humans. If anything, these are cyborgs.”

Sam stares at him for a solid three seconds, and Bucky swears he can feel his soul leaving his body. He needs Sam to teach him that look, so he can use it on second period US History. It is _withering._

Sam stares at him and then shakes his head. “You know what? How bout I just push you into the lizard _cyborg_ army?”

“Come on, let’s not fight!” Clint shouts at them, “And hold on!” He swerves hard, the truck hopping up on the sidewalk which is now thankfully cleared of all civilians, and they come screeching to a rubber-burning halt some two hundred feet from the office building’s entrance.

“Yeet!” Clint throws himself out the driver’s window, bow in hand; he catches himself one-handed on the pavement and rolls, coming up to a crouch and firing off a round of arrows so quick, Bucky can’t follow their trajectory.

They do, however, seem to be the type of arrows that explode on impact.

“That’s ya boi!” Clint cheers, leaping to his feet and pulling a knife from who knows where, stabbing it through the central cortex of the nearest bot. The communicator on his wrist goes haywire at the same time Sam’s does. “Shit - shit shit shit!”

“What does that mean?” Bucky shouts, but Clint’s not listening.

Instead, starts to sprint towards the office building like the world’s messiest tornado, and Bucky and Sam run behind him, their squabble forgotten in the face of potential death.

“What is that?” Bucky jabs a finger at Sam’s wrist communicator, and the man spares him a sideways glance, his lips pursed before answering.

“It’s an Avengers … livestream, I guess?” They have to stop and shoot their way out of another clump of lizard bots, so it’s a few more seconds before Sam can continue. “Tony got the big idea to put all our vitals on the system so we’d always know if one of us were in life-threatening trouble.”

“Is it going off for us?” Bucky asks weakly, his eyes trained on the building ahead which _should_ look closer by now, but is looking farther and farther away.

“No.” Sam doesn’t elaborate, and Bucky waits for a brief pause in fighting to grab his wrist and read the words flashing around the perimeter of the display like a fancy FitBit.

“Code Red White and Blue?” Bucky’s stomach gets cold very quickly, and he feels like he might get sick. “What does that-”

“It means we need to get to the building, and clear a path up to where Tony and Steve are,” Sam says firmly, gripping Bucky’s forearm. “It can mean _anything_ \- Steve could have broken the damn thing, it’s happened before, it could be a severe injury that he’s already healing from,” and Bucky’s stomach clenches again at the idea that Sam probably has _plenty_ of experience in that exact situation when it comes to Steve, “But what I _do_ know is that we need to finish this fucking fight before we can worry about getting to the top of that building.”

“Can’t you fly us up there?” Bucky asks weakly, already returning to shooting, this time more detached, his mind spiralling in anxiety. 

“Not if you expect a way back down,” Sam answers grimly. “I can only take one person at a time, and even that’s a strain on my wings. If both Steve and Tony need medical attention -”

“Fine.” Bucky clears his throat and fights the tears in his eyes, frustration building in him like an oncoming storm. “So, how do we do this? Do we call for back-up?”

Sam snorts. “Tony already sent back-up. They should be here soon.”

Bucky shoots him a look. “I thought Tony sent _you_?”

“Not even close: I saw your stupid ass on the news when I was at the gym, minding my own business, Barnes. I sent myself.”

He shoots a lizard-bot through the chest, and it hits a successive wave of robots that had been lined up behind it. They fall like Dominos.

“Huh. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

**

When Steve comes to, he feels like he’s been strapped down by a multi-ton weight, his arms and legs weighed down. He’s immobile, and that’s got nothing to do with the painful crushing sensation in his chest. The only thing he knows: something is very, very wrong.

He gets his eyes open, at least, and even that feels like a monumental task; he sees Tony, wrists still bound, to his right, and Tony’s eyeing their captor warily. The only reason why Steve knows their captor is still here is that he’s pontificating. Loudly.

Steve shifts, testing the strength of the restraints, but he groans from pain as soon as he tries, the joints in his body creaking and popping, his stomach lurching uncomfortably.

“Ah, you’re awake.” 

Steve lifts his eyes to see Tarleton smirking at him, Clinton not far behind him, his eyes fixed on the display, which shows running security footage of the outside of the building.

Where Sam Wilson, Clint Barton, and Bucky Barnes are currently fighting for their lives against an army of those foul robot lizards.

“So,” Tony sits up, interrupting Tarleton’s glee at Steve’s discomfort. “I’m sure it’s on everyone’s mind, and I just gotta ask: why the robot lizards?”

“How often have you fought my creations in the last year and a half, Mr. Stark?” Tarleton asks. Steve tries to focus on the question and summon an answer, but all he gets is a splitting headache; it feels like he hasn’t eaten in a week, but he’d downed a protein bar and shake right before they arrived.

_Maybe he was out longer than he thought?_

“Maybe,” Tony makes a rude popping noise with his mouth, making Tarleton scowl again, “Maybe, I don’t know, half a dozen times? Does that sound right to you, Cap?”

Steve wants to say _yeah, sure,_ but all that comes out is a pained wheeze. He flails against the restraints holding him down one last time, but to no use. 

He glances down his body, and what he sees gives him pause.

There are no restraints. He’s just lying on the ground.

“Rogers?” Tony nudges him with his foot. “Work with me, pal.”

“I wonder if the Captain has figured out what we’ve done to him yet.” Tarleton settles himself on the conference table, his legs swinging underneath him like a child on a playset; he holds the gun he’d used to shoot Steve in his hands, and Steve eyes it warily. 

If it did this to _Steve,_ he doesn’t want to find out what might happen if Tarleton aims at Tony. Regrettably, Tony’s doing an admirable job of keeping Tarleton’s attention squarely on him, and Steve’s in no shape to distract the megalomaniac threatening them from his very human, very fragile friend with shrapnel in his heart.

“What did you do to him?” Tony grits out when Tarleton doesn’t elaborate. Tarleton laughs and gestures at Steve, not saying anything, and even Clinton cracks a grin as he stands at the monitor. “Hey, look, fucker, I’m not in the mood to be ignored - what did you do to him?”

“Something … delicious.” Tarleton sighs and spins the gun around by the grip loosely, and Steve flinches noticeably when it points at Tony. “Something good and ironic.”

“What will America think of you know, Captain Rogers?” Clinton turns and smiles down at him as Steve coughs weakly around the questions in his throat. “Now that we’ve shown who you truly are?”

“F-” Steve splutters out, coughing again when the air doesn’t go into his lungs: the headache, the tightness in his chest, the inability to talk. He knows what this is. He hasn’t felt it in almost a century, but it’s impossible to forget. 

“Hm?” Tarleton leans in, grinning madly. “I couldn’t hear you, Captain, perhaps you had some sort of speech planned about truth, justice, and the American way?”

Steve takes a rattling breath, and he can feel Tony trying to wiggle closer to him, as though he can do anything about the asthma attack that’s threatening to pull him under. “F- _fuck you,_ ” Steve spits out, and Tarleton’s smile doesn’t fade so much as freeze.

“So creative.” Tarleton shakes his head and sighs dramatically in Clinton’s direction. “Tell me, Mr. Clinton, has the operative taken the bait?”

“Oh, I’d say he has.” Clinton freezes the screen and points at Bucky, who’s got a rifle clutched in his hands. “This is on every news channel in the country, and most of the international stations as well. I’d say he’s taken the bait quite nicely.”

“What do you want with Barnes?” Tony asks tersely, and when Tarleton and Clinton ignore him again, he taps Steve in the shin. “What’s wrong?” He whispers, his voice barely audible. 

Odd. Steve tries to pop his left eardrum, gritting his teeth, but nothing. He can’t hear out of his left ear.

That hasn’t been the case since -

He coughs, having forgotten to breathe again, and his head throbs in agony, his wrists screaming in protest as he tries to lift them towards his stomach, which is aching as though his abdominal muscles haven’t been in use in decades. 

It hits him, then, and he gasps for air, shaking his head at Tony’s questions. Tears form in his eyes, leaking down his face, not from pain so much as frustration, not grief so much as rage forcing him to show this weakness that they really can’t afford right now.

“Steve?” Tony nudges him again in the shin, this time a little harder. It honestly _hurts_ , in a way it shouldn’t hurt when a man who weighs one hundred and seventy pounds in a nice suit kicks him. 

“The - the serum,” Steve says through teeth gritted in pain. “They - Tony, they-” What he was trying to say gets lost in another vicious fit of coughing.

“Very good.” Tarleton claps sarcastically. “Gold star, Captain Rogers. You figured it out.”

“Figured it out?” Tony’s voice borders on panicked now, but Steve can’t keep his eyes open to see what his face is doing. “You - what the hell did you do?”

“The ray’s effects are very simple,” Tarleton’s voice is oozing with smug self-satisfaction. “My labs have been working on something like it for the last year and a half; my creations have been collecting data on radiation signatures from the various freaks on your team, Mr. Stark, the captain here included. Each weapon that I designed matches those radiation signatures to the last frequency, and this particular model,” Steve cracks his eyes open and sees Tarleton holding the gun up like a shiny trophy, “is set to disrupt the captain’s particular brand of radioactivity, the traces of which were left after his treatment in 1943. He’s being re-written, all the way down to his molecules.”

“What?” Tony asks, aghast, and Steve fights another violent round of nausea, his heart roaring in his ears, the room spinning violently around him. That must be his blood sugar, crashing disastrously.

He has a feeling these assholes don’t keep glucose tablets on hand for this sort of situation. 

“Feeling sick, Captain?” Clinton tsks, feigning sympathy, and Steve’s anxiety ratchets up another five levels at the sight of Bucky on the television, brave, strong Bucky who has no idea what’s waiting for him if he gets in this building. He’s literally helpless to step in if Bucky’s in trouble, and he thinks that thought might kill him before the rest of this shit does. “If I recall my history, you had quite the list of ailments as a young man.”

“Perhaps your sweet Bucky could elucidate us?” Tarleton smirks at him before returning to study the monitor. “Give us a history lesson.”

Steve can’t breathe around the panic and fury in his throat, but Tony’s next to him, pressing something into his heavy, still palm. He frowns down at the small rescue inhaler, and then looks over at Tony, and then back down at the inhaler - it clicks in his brain.

How did Tony hand him this if he’s restrained?

“Don’t worry,” Tony whispers while the Georges are busy chortling over their wicked work. “I’ve got a contingency plan.”

“Be … surprised … if you didn’t,” Steve mutters, eeking the words out one at a time, the weight of them dragging him down further. 

Tony shushes him and closes his fingers around the inhaler; he rolls to the side a second later, his wrists clicking together without the slightest sound.

When Tony stands, he’s fully suited, the nanotech plates hidden in his bracelets fully activated and covering his body.

“Hey boys,” Tony calls, the visor sliding into place over his goateed smirk. “Hope you don’t mind, but I brought my own party favors.”

The arc reactor lights up like a Christmas tree, and Tony fires a beam at Clinton, who catches the brunt of it and slams into the opposite wall hard enough to leave a sizable dent in the drywall.

Tarleton looks surprised, but only for a split second before he barks orders into his commlink, and the unmistakable sound and rhythm of footsteps pound outside the door.

“Stay down, Rogers,” Tony orders him, stepping out in front of him. 

A dozen robot lizards break down the door, their claws clicking ominously, their metallic tongues tasting the air as they hiss and reach for Tony.

“I got this,” Tony assures him, standing as an essential shield between Steve and the oncoming wave of combatants. Steve groans and summons all the strength left in his body - “Don’t try to get up!” Tony says without turning around, but Steve grips the conference table and hauls himself upright, putting his fists up in front of his chest in a mockery of the boxing stance he’d picked up in Brooklyn alleyways a century and a lifetime ago.

“Cap!” Tony sounds vaguely horrified as Steve takes a swing at the nearest robot, his knuckles glancing painfully off the metal shell. “I told you to stay down.”

“It’s like … you don’t … even know me,” Steve pants, smirking at Tony before swaying and trying to dodge a swipe from another robot.

It hits him, square in the ribs, and Tony roars in frustration, kicking the thing away from him and shooting it with a beam of bright blue light.

The blow to his abdomen hurts badly enough, but then Steve has to catch himself as he stumbles backwards, and the joints in his body crunch painfully as he grinds to a halt, his knee twisting horribly as he tries to brace himself and regain his fighting stance.

“Really Captain, this is too much, even for you,” Tarleton observes from the door, as he watches Tony and Steve take on his robot minions.

Another swipe on his left has Steve groaning and clutching at what he hopes isn’t an important organ. The tell-tale knitting of wounds is entirely absent for the first time in years, and Steve has to deal with the blistering, continual wave of pain that promises to bruise.

“It’s just pathetic,” Tarleton assures him, and Steve plants his feet again and shakes his head. “Captain, you aren’t looking too good.”

“I can do this all day,” Steve snarls, raising his hands again.

Tarleton sighs and gestures at him to the robot that’s standing at his shoulder.

The robot takes aim and fires once, and a wave of energy hits Steve in the chest and sends him slamming back against the conference table. Something definitely snaps in his abdomen - he’s guessing his ribs, a few of them, by the flare of pain - and he half-groans, half-screams in pain as he collapses to the floor.

“Cap!” Tony pivots and tries to block the next group of murder-bots from reaching him, but another one shoots a different sort of energy beam at Tony, and the lights of Tony’s suit go out, leaving only the arc reactor that keeps his heart beating, his face visor flipping up and revealing his face, lined with stress.

“Tony-” Steve gasps, reaching for his friend, who’s now fallen like a puppet with its strings cut.

“Shit,” Tony squirms on the floor, which means he’s alive, and Steve tries to breathe and calm himself down, but he’s coughing again. 

He reaches across the floor for the inhaler Tony had handed him and uses it quickly, as Tarleton’s laughing at the pair of them collapsed on the ground.

“Was that your best, Stark?” Tarleton laughs and then sighs almost wistfully. “And they said you were a formidable opponent. I guess you can’t pay for a good archenemy these days.”

“Asshole,” Tony mutters. He gives Steve a weak, pained smile. “Sorry, Cap. I think I failed you-”

“No.” Steve feels his chest relax slightly from the meds in the rescue inhaler, and he breathes as steadily as he can, shaking his head at Tony’s disappointed face. “You didn’t - it - it was a good contingency plan.”

That makes Tony laugh hard enough that Tarleton’s distracted mid-villain speech. Steve eyes him warily, waiting for him to explain, and Tony stares up at the ceiling, laboring to catch a breath through his laughter.

“What?” Steve asks.

“Yes, what is so funny, Mr. Stark?” Tarleton asks through gritted teeth.

Tony keeps laughing, shaking his head slowly, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “The suit was never the contingency plan.”

“I beg your pardon?” 

“The suit wasn’t my plan.” Tony pushes himself up to a seated position on the floor, his armored hand resting on Steve’s shoulder - he’s still a shield between Steve and whatever threat might come at them next, and Steve’s chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with physical health. 

The alarms go off on the monitor, causing Tarleton’s head to whip to the side to watch the screen, a strange look of consternation crossing his face. Tony laughs again, quieter this time. Angrier.

“The suit was just a distraction.” Tony nods his head at the screen. “You wanted to see my _best_ , Tarleton? You’re about to meet him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know it's a cliffhanger but chapter 18 is actually fully written and i was holding off on publishing this chapter until that was true, so, hopefully i'll be posting chapter 18 soon....
> 
>  
> 
> Wonder what Tony's talking about?
> 
>  
> 
> (to quote Dr. Strange: We're in the endgame now)


	18. The Contingency Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky arrives with back-up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (as promised, not even a day later!!!)
> 
>  **warnings**  
>  More comic book violence, a little more bloody than last time  
> POV character has a panic attack  
> Lots of cursing  
> Near-death experiences
> 
> De-seruming of Steve is still a feature of this chapter (and if that’s not your thing ... you might want to read to the end of the fic bc .... well you’ll see)

There’s dozens of robot-lizards left, and Bucky can feel his initial surge of adrenaline fading away, leaving his mouth feeling dry; of course, his anxiety decides that _this_ is a great moment to rear its ugly head, and he’s suddenly frozen in the middle of the pavement with six different robot-lizards reaching out for him, clicking eagerly. He has a gun in his hands, a gun he knows how to use and use well, and all he can think is --

 _Who the fuck do I think I am_?

Bucky feels like he’s in a dream suddenly, and he turns to see Clint pulling a wicked knife from a sheath on his left shoulder, spinning it expertly to slice through the exposed wiring on the robot right in front of him; the archer doesn’t even break stride as he crashes through another six bad guys. To his right, Sam Wilson dives out of the sky, swooping down in a tight spiral to pick up one robot and throw it into another, pulling out of the dive and shooting fifteen more with the guns anchored to the shoulders of his wings.

And Bucky - well, Bucky managed to decapitate one of these lizard assholes, that’s true, but Sam and Clint show no sign of fatigue, no sign of hesitation, whereas Bucky has to keep reminding himself to pick up the gun, aim, fire, pick up the gun, aim, fire. The ammo on his belt is running out, and Clint had stared at him incredulously when Bucky refused to pick up one of the weapons the robot-lizards had been carrying. 

Clint, conversely, has already used the tech to his advantage at least two dozen times. Sam’s figured out how to disable the tech, effortlessly nonchalant about blowing up a core of them in one move; Bucky doesn’t think he’d be able to be so calm about a _video game_ kill that looked like that, and this is no fucking video game. It’s neverending. It’s exhausting. It’s -

No place for a teacher.

Weariness hits him, hard, and something that’s almost anger but feels a lot more like despair claws at his throat. Steve’s in that fucking building, Steve’s life is probably in danger, Steve is only there because of Bucky, and Bucky, what, wants to quit? Because he thinks he can’t do this?

He shoulders the rifle and fires off a few more times, but feels an unignorable need to cry. Every time he fires, a robot goes down, and two more take its place, in some horrific live-interpretation of that Hydra motto, and thinking about Hydra makes him think about the facility where they tortured him, and thinking about the facility makes him think about _Brock,_ and Bucky hasn’t thought about that motherfucker in at least two months, not since a bad nightmare ripped him out of sleep and convinced him Brock was standing outside his window, and Bucky can’t - he can’t do this. 

He isn’t a fighter. He isn’t a hero - he isn’t supposed to be here, he’s supposed to be in New York, waiting out his trial by public opinion on social media, and he’s here, and the world is getting blurry because he probably needs to breathe - and what kind of superhero can’t remember how to breathe, this is just exhibit 250 of why he shouldn’t be an Avenger, and _Steve is dying,_ he needs to get to Steve, but he’s so tired, and -

“You okay, Barnes?” Sam lands next to him and grips his arm, and Bucky realizes he’s been standing still for who knows how long, rifle tight in his grip, his breathing tight and pained from panic. “Barnes?”

“I can’t do this,” Bucky whispers, and he hates himself for saying it, they’re in the middle of a fucking battle, and his brain just decides, nope, done enough for the day, but he’s _so tired,_ and not helping, and -

“You can,” Sam assures him, squeezing his arm tight, eyes concerned but not pitying. Bucky holds onto that. “You’ve done so much already - but if you’re done fighting, you need to get someplace safe, okay? Retreat a few blocks, and we’ll let you know when we’ve cleared the way into the building.”

“I-” The robots always direct themselves towards him, though, and even now that they’ve reduced the current wave to a tenth of what it was, he knows there will be more, and he _knows_ they’ll look for him because they seem designed to head for him. “I need to finish this,” Bucky says, exhausted by the statement but convinced of its truth.

“Okay.” Sam gives him a long, careful look. “Okay, man, that’s your choice. We gotta fight now if you’re going to stay in here, alright? But there is nothing - _nothing_ wrong with walking away from this.”

“Steve wouldn’t.” Bucky reloads his rifle, staring down at the barrell as he does. He checks the cartridge robotically and then sets his jaw grimly. 

“You aren’t Steve Rogers.” Sam’s hand is on his shoulder again, his bad one, and Bucky looks to the side, shame burning his throat. “None of us are, and that isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”

“Move.” Bucky pushes Sam out of the way, shooting the robots that were creeping up on Sam’s six; all of them fall with a bullet hole clean through their heads in the same spot. 

Sam stares at them and then at Bucky, a long moment through his tinted goggles that Bucky refuses to acknowledge fully. Bucky nods and then claps Sam on the shoulder.

“Let’s finish this fight and go get our dumbass, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Sam nods, eyeing Bucky’s left hand and swallowing something back. He nods again and then takes off running. “Let’s get our dumbass.”

Bucky pushes his left hand against his thigh to quell the trembling that Sam had undoubtedly noticed; he pushes his doubt and anxiety down, down into a small part of himself that he won’t look at until this fight is over and Steve is safe. 

The odds are against them, and this fight probably won’t be over any time soon, but that just means Bucky will have to hold on a little longer until Steve is safe and in his arms and far away from stupid stunts and dangerous masterminds.

Bucky shoulders the rifle and studies the newest wave of lizard robots pouring out of the building; he, Clint, and Sam run forward, but some irritating part of his brain pulls up statistics from all those historical battles he’s so fond of studying, how the odds of this kind of fight are honestly not at all good for the three of them, how they’re essentially the Spartans fending off the Persians at Thermopylae or Pickett’s men charging up Ziegler’s Grove and his brain is Longstreet (minus all the inherent racism) telling them it isn’t going to work, but his body isn’t listening anyway because _Steve_ is in there - 

It’s a disaster, and they’re going to lose, and the robot nearest to Bucky reaches out, its creepy jaws opening as though it wants to swallow him whole -

And the jaws snap shut when something white hits them. The robot hurls backwards, plowing into five other robots, and all of them roll together in a pathetic little ball of metal parts and dinosaur feet, and Bucky waits for them to get up until his brain registers why they aren’t getting up.

They’re stuck to the ground.

Bucky looks up when he hears the undeniable sound of air whistling, and he half expects to see Sam, but Sam’s fifteen feet to his left, also looking up at the blur of red and blue that streaks by overhead.

“Y’know, when I said I was excited about the Jurassic Park sequel, this is not what I had in mind!”

The red and blue figure comes to a stop balanced on top of a moving truck, and he shoots out five more webs in rapid succession, robots smashing together and then, the newcomer hops off the truck, using the leverage to haul the clump of robots - at least a dozen of them - up and over a nearby lampost.

Bucky feels his jaw hit the ground. He has a feeling he won’t pick it up any time soon.

“Is that--?”

“No way,” Sam breathes, still staring up.

“OH MY GOD! SPIDER-MAN!” Clint shrieks waving his hands. “I LOVE YOU!”

“I love you too?” Spider-Man pauses and waves at them, teetering with the grace and poise of a ballerina on top of the lampost that’s now a lizard prison. “Oh! Mr. Hawkeye! How are you?”

“I’ve been better.” Clint shrugs and restrings his bow to knock down a few more robots that are rushing at him. “How are you? How’s your aunt?”

“She’s good! She loved the gift Ms. Natasha sent her for her birthday!” Spider-Man swings off the lampost and hurls his slender body into a pack of robots, which scatter like bowling pins. “Tell her I said thank you!”

“Ms. Natasha?” Bucky mouths, mostly to himself, but Sam sees it and shrugs as if to say _I don’t know either._ Bucky squints up at Spider-Man, who’s already webbing up another eight robots with the sort of ease that makes him feel generally useless.

“She already got your note, kid,” Clint assures him. “Catch!” He runs at Spider-Man, who laces his fingers together and makes a small shelf for Clint to step on and vault himself off from; clearly Spider-Man helps his ascent because Clint soars at least twenty feet into the air, screaming the whole time, even as he fires off an impressive arc of explosive arrows.

“Yeet?” Bucky asks sardonically, and Sam snorts.

“Yeet!” Spider-Man turns to him, and even through the mask, Bucky thinks he’s smiling. “Yeah! Yeet! Oh my god - are you James Barnes?”

“Yes?” He tries to fathom a world where Spider-Man, the hero of Queens, has any idea who he is. “How do you-”

“Hold on, sir,” Spider-Man reaches out to web a small landing pad for Clint, who bounces on it a few times before sliding off and returning to the fray. 

Bucky reluctantly shoulders his rifle and starts picking off more robots, holding his curiosity at bay for now.

Not for long, though, because it seems he, Clint, and Spider-Man all have the same attention span, which is to say, limited.

“Sorry about that, sir,” Spider-Man says to him earnestly. 

Bucky frowns at something in Spider-Man’s voice, trying to piece it together; along with what Clint had called him, and the size of Spider-Man ( _he looks so much bigger in the Vines_ ), and also, that’s gotta be the fifth time he’s called him _sir -_

No. No, that can’t be right.

“Why are you sorry?” He asks. “And how do you know who I am?”

“I just don’t want you to think I’m trying to ignore you, sir, I’m a huge fan - I saw you on the news, right, and it was just so - it was so cool how you stood up for your class in the museum on Friday, and I was like _wow, that’s so cool,_ and I told Mr. Stark I was a big fan of yours, and that was before he told me you’d need some help today, and luckily I was already in DC, and-”

Bucky holds a hand up, ignoring, for now, the flurry of activity around them. Spider-Man doesn’t hesitate though, and keeps serving up webs with a ferocity and speed Bucky can only envy.

“How old are you?” Bucky asks, hoping to put this sudden, uncomfortable suspicion away.

“Uh.” 

Spider-Man flips backwards, kicking a robot in the face, and Bucky wrenches a few away from him, seized with an indescribable need to protect this obviously superpowered skinny person in a cool suit. 

“How old?” He repeats, returning to firing into the crowd of robot lizards.

“I’m - old,” Spider-Man says with zero confidence. “Super old. Like, beyond old. Yeah.”

Bucky seizes Spider-Man up for a long second and decides that at best, he’s Bucky’s age, and at worst, well… 

Only one way to find out.

“What’s your favorite Britney album?” Bucky asks, and Spider-Man freezes mid-webbing.

“Um.” His voice shakes a little. “I mean, Toxic is… pretty good, right?”

Well, fuck.

“Where were you on Y2K?” Bucky demands, scowling at Spider-Man with his full, patented, Mr. Barnes Murder-Eyes. 

“Well, see, on Y2K, I was -” Spider-Man rubs his neck, an action that would be endearing even if it _didn’t_ pull attention to how skinny his wrists were. “Oh, yeah, Y2K, that was, well, I was at a friend’s house. Drinking. Alcohol.”

Bucky stares at him, dumbfounded.

“You’re a child.” He shakes his head, and doesn’t even blink as Spider-Man shoots another batch of webs, clearing a solid path for the first time in twenty minutes to the front doors of the building. “You’re actually a child. I’m fighting next to a child.”

“I’m not - uhh, the door’s clear!” Spider-Man’s already running. “C’mon, Mr. Stark needs us!”

Sam and Clint, who’d been distracted for most of Bucky’s conversation with the red-and-blue tiny child, follow him in, and Bucky forces his disbelief away for the time being.

They charge up the stairs behind Spider-Man, who acrobatically flips up and around the railings, webbing any and all lizards that are running towards them, and he clears a path almost single-handedly, Sam and Bucky helping take down a few of the more violent robots. 

When they’ve gotten to the eighth floor, they eye the stairs above them, and they all notice the same thing at the same time, judging by the look they trade.

“They’re not coming from any floor higher than this,” Sam says, gripping the door handle. “They came from this level.”

He pulls, and nothing happens. Sam curses and tries again, to no avail. “A little help, Spider-Man?” Sam gestures at the wall, and Spider-Man nods eagerly before shrieking.

“Look out!” He jumps clear over their heads and tackles the lizard-robot that had ripped free from its web-restraints and had been reaching for Clint. 

“Shit.” Sam shakes his head and rattles the door again.

Clint pats his pockets down and comes up with a small leather pouch. “I can pick it?”

“Not sure if it’s that kind of lock.” Sam growls and tugs the door one last time. 

Bucky eyes the stairs above them, just in case, but his focus is almost immediately shattered by a long, drawn-out scream of pain that stabs at his heart with near-lethal precision.

Clint pales. “Was that-”

“Steve.” Bucky shakes his head and snarls a string of curse words, half in Romanian. “Move,” he barks at Sam. 

There’s another scream of pain from beyond the door, and Bucky doesn’t think, just charges at it, grabbing the handle that Sam had quickly released, and wrenching. The door groans but doesn’t budge, and Bucky snarls again, lifts his foot, and kicks the door as hard as he can near the handle. 

He kicks again and again, the metal screeching and groaning, and soon it buckles and gives way, and he knocks it down, stumbling into the office behind the door. 

The lights are all off, which isn’t the most welcoming thing he’s ever experienced; Bucky glances over his shoulder and sees that Spider-Man’s rejoined them, and Clint and Sam are close behind him. Another scream cuts through the office, and Bucky takes off at a jog.

“Barnes!” Sam hisses.

“We’re right behind you,” Clint says, and there’s a quiet sound of a scuffle before Bucky hears them following him.

“Where are you?” Bucky whispers, but no new scream rises out of the darkness. 

“I think he’s this way, Mr. Barnes,” Spider-Man whispers back, keeping up at Bucky’s shoulder. “I hear heartbeats this way-”

“You can hear-” Bucky shakes his head and gestures for Spider-Man to lead.

They run as quietly as they can through the office, Sam grumbling about how this is probably the worst idea ever, and what’s left of Bucky’s common sense agrees. But he can’t forget that tortured sound of pain, he can’t stop himself from imagining what would make Steve Rogers make that noise, so he can’t stop the sweep of the office.

They don’t find Steve first. They find Tony.

“Mr. Stark!” Spider-Man collapses at Tony’s side and shakes the older man desperately. He smacks a spot on Stark’s arc reactor and does something inside of it that causes sparks to go off. “Oh, God, Mr. Stark, please.”

With a horrible wheeze of pain and a fit of coughing, Tony jerks awake.

“I’m okay,” Tony lifts a hand and swats at Spider-Man while still coughing. “Takes more than that to kill me, kid, you know that.”

Spider-Man sits back on his heels and sniffs, wiping at his mask with the back of his hand before seeming to remember he’s wearing a mask. And Tony, well - Bucky knows Tony. They’re friends, good friends, and Tony’s kinder to him than he is to most, but right now, with Spider-Man kneeling at his side and fighting back tears, Tony looks … undeniably, unbelievably, heartbreakingly soft.

“I’m okay, kid.” Tony clasps Spider-Man by the side of the neck, and Spider-Man nods, his head drooping as he grips Tony’s forearm. “I’m okay.”

“Not bad for a - a contingency plan, huh?” Spider-Man asks weakly, and Tony cracks a smile. 

The tender moment is largely interrupted by the sound of the lizard robots, clicking and squeaking, claws clacking as they head towards their spot.

“Uh, Stark, can you fight?” Sam extends his wings. “Because if not, let me get you out of here.”

“I can fight.” Tony’s wearing a grim look of determination before the visor comes back down. “Help me up, kid.”

“Maybe you both should go,” Bucky says, his previous disbelief returning with his desire to not see Spider-Man dead before eighteen. “We’re in, we just gotta find Steve, and-”

Tony stares at him from behind the visor, and Bucky tells himself it’s not as disconcerting as it feels. “They took Cap,” Tony says slowly. “They - they did something to him, Barnes, it’s not good-”

“What did they do?” Bucky doesn’t get an answer because the lizards pour through the door they just entered, filling the office too quickly for them to reasonably run for it.

He, Sam, Clint, Tony, and Spider-Man stand with their backs to each other, weapons in hand, arc reactors powered up, webs at the ready, and they fight again. It’s dizzying, and loud, and Bucky wants Tony to answer his question, but before he can demand a real answer, something in the corner of his eye catches his attention.

Two lizards have Spider-Man pinned down, and he’s shouting, lashing out at them; Tony’s held up in his own corner, and Sam’s limited indoors in this kind of combat to begin with - Bucky dives for the robots and forgets that he’s carrying a gun, just beats the ever-living shit out of them with his hands, his knuckles cracking on the metal as he tears them off Spider-Man and throws them, in pieces, out of the way.

“You okay?” He asks Spider-Man, offering him a hand. He takes it with a nod, and Bucky snorts. “Good. Now get out of here.”

“What?” Spider-Man stares at him before webbing another lizard. “But I can help!”

“You can.” Bucky admits with no shortage of teeth gritting. “And you can also get seriously hurt. So, go someplace safe. Please.”

“Mr. Stark!” Spider-Man protests, and Bucky has a bizarre feeling of _you can’t just ask your father when I say no,_ like Winifred Barnes is standing at his shoulder like a ghost from his past, everything she scolded him for at thirteen coming back to bite him in the ass. 

“Let him fight, Barnes!” Tony blasts the new wave of robots coming in the door. 

“He’s a child!” Bucky roars back. “He’s a _kid,_ Tony!”

“And he can fight!” Tony snaps, and it’s the first time Bucky’s been legitimately furious with Anthony Stark since they became friends. “Better than most of us! Besides, he isn’t that young!”

“Yeah!” Spider-Man agrees brightly. “I’m not that young. I can fight!”

“See?” Tony shrugs and goes back to fighting, and Bucky almost forgets why they’re here in his disbelief. “Come on, Barnes, you fighting or not?” He looks over at Bucky, who decides that _yeah,_ he’s going to pick this fight here and now.

“Kid!” Bucky points at Spider-Man. “Do you have a driver’s license?”

“Uh, no sir,” the kid squeaks. As in, literally squeaks. His voice cracks on the second syllable. “I get it next month.”

“He doesn’t have a driver’s license!” Bucky screams at Tony, still pointing at Spider-Man. Tony gets knocked down a second later, so he doesn’t know if the grunt he makes is one of acknowledgement or pain. ”He’s too young to fight, Tony!”

“Can we talk about this later?” Tony asks, propelling himself upward and blasting a robot with precision that should scare Bucky.

Instead, he swings his rifle up and takes the head off of a lizard groping at the arm of Spider-Man. 

Man.

Spider- _Child,_ more like. 

“Oh, we are _going_ to talk about this later!” Bucky snarls. “Kid, get down!”

“Yes sir!”

Until he can figure out where Steve is, Bucky decides he has _one_ mission. Keep Spider-Child alive. It’s with that single-minded fury that he starts to rip through the robotic hoards, knocking out countless lizard cyborgs before they can touch the masked hero of Queens, and he doesn’t even feel Tony’s eyes on him until he hears Tony shouting at him in disbelief.

“Buckaroo, he’s stronger than both of us!”

Bucky roars in frustration and slams his now-empty rifle through the optical unit of a robot. “Child!” 

“You are being _such a teacher right now_!” Tony shouts.

“I’m gonna have to agree with Barnes,” Sam offers from his side of the room, and Clint cackles manically, stabbing a few robots in the spinal cord as he leaps around. 

Bucky swears that if Clint offers his opinion on this and it doesn’t match Bucky’s, it’s going to get tossed out of consideration immediately. He loves Clint, but he’s eaten three-month-expired ice cream for dinner before.

“I think we’re all forgetting-”

There’s another scream, louder than before, visceral, and they all stop squabbling. It’s coming from the back of the office, down a corridor that’s darker than the room they’re standing in.

“Stevie?” Bucky shouts back. He swears he can hear a distant catch of breath, one he knows and would recognize anywhere. “Stevie, I’m here!”

“Barnes, hold up!” Tony yells, but there’s another group of robots that attack him, and he curses vividly, unable to stop Bucky as he sprints past him, his rifle useless. He’s terrified out of his wits when the screaming starts up again.

“Mr. Barnes, wait!” 

“Stay with Tony!” Bucky snaps over his shoulder, distracted again by the screaming. Tony once said he was the fastest enhanced he’d evaluated besides Quicksilver, and it’s paying off today, as he leaps over robot carcasses and desks and office furniture in the straightest line possible to the source of the horrible screaming- “ _Steve_!” 

He barrels down the hallway, ignoring the team calling for him, and he sees it - at the end of the corridor, a door with a large glass window, illuminated, the only source of light he’s seen since walking onto the eighth floor. 

Bucky slams into the door, not even in the realm of being able to control his speed, and he can see Steve curled up on the ground inside, bleeding from the lip, his eye bruised and swollen; he’s holding his arm to his stomach as though holding something _in,_ and Bucky pounds on the glass. 

“Stevie!”

Steve looks up, and a look of utter terror crosses his face, clear even in the half-lighting of the cell he’s sitting in. He tries to say something, but all he can do is cough, and with Bucky’s heightened senses, he can see the blood staining Steve’s gums.

“Fuck-” He rattles the door handle and realizes it opens into the cell, thank his motherfucking lucky stars, so he puts his shoulder into it and heaves, once, twice, before it smashes open. 

Bucky tumbles into the cell, falling to his knees immediately at Steve’s side, and he runs his hands anxiously up and down Steve’s arms, horrified at the tattered state of his dress uniform, at the blood that seeps through the multiple lacerations that aren’t healing.

“What?” Bucky stares at the bruises that are blooming along Steve’s chest and collarbone. “What did they -”

“The serum,” Steve whispers, sounding like each syllable costs him dearly. “They r-reversed it, Buck, I can’t - I’m not-”

“We need to get you out of here,” Bucky says, reaching out without thinking and hauling Steve in. 

Steve sobs in pain, his face twisted up in agony and what seems to be, oddly enough, self-loathing, and Bucky fights back a whimper of his own at the thought of having made Steve make that noise.

“You gotta go,” Steve sobs, shaking his head weakly. “Pl-please, Bucky, it was a trap, please go-”

“No, I’m not leaving,” Bucky snaps, setting Steve down carefully, propping him up against the wall, ignoring how bloody streaks are left behind whenever Steve moves an inch along the floor. 

He screams towards the broken door, “We need help!” and prays that Spider-Man’s all-too-keen hearing picked up on the shout. 

“You need to g-go,” Steve sobs. “You have to-”

“No.” Bucky kisses him then, framing his face with his hands and kissing him with all the softness he thinks they can’t afford at the moment. He pours his love into the kiss, his relief at seeing Steve alive, the grief he feels for seeing Steve in so much pain. “Not without you.”

“It’s a trap,” Steve closes his eyes and squeezes Bucky’s wrist before his hand drops into his lap limply. “Run, Buck.”

“What do you mean it’s a-”

The lights come on in full-force in the room, a blinding, sterile light that Bucky shields his eyes against. “What the f-”

In that second, a metal grate slams shut through the doorframe Bucky had just burst through. There’s no window, no break in the metal. Their exit is gone.

“No,” Steve shakes his head, not sounding or seeming lucid at the moment, and Bucky’s stomach tightens painfully. “No, Buck, you need to get out-”

Bucky turns to study the room that’s now fully illuminated by eerie fluorescent lights that swing overhead. White floors streaked with blood, white walls, a drain in the middle of the floor that makes his gut clench again, a viewing window, and - no - that’s - _that can’t be right_ - 

It’s the chair.

The chair from his nightmares, the chair from the Hydra facility, the one that they’d tried to strap him into over and over again, the one they’d whispered promises of _untold potential,_ and _going to make us all proud, Jamie,_ and he backs up instinctively, holding his arms around Steve as though it’d offer either of them an inch more protection.

“It’s a perfect replica, is it not?”

The viewing window lights up, and Bucky sees a total stranger smirking at him. He doesn’t know this guy at all, but he does know that he’s responsible for whatever’s happened to Steve, his good, strong, Stevie, broken and bleeding on the floor. 

“Who the fuck are you?” 

The man tsks, the noise coming through a loudspeaker mounted on the wall. Bucky can feel his pistol, his last resort, tucked into the back of his waistband, hidden from view and pressing into his skin; he debates the merits of firing into the window. He’s sure it’s probably bulletproof.

“As uncooperative as the notes said you were.”

Bucky fights a wave of revulsion and paints a sneer on his face instead. “So you’re Hydra, then?”

“Hydra?” The man blinks in controlled disgust. “Heavens, no. I represent a much more elegant organization, Mr. Barnes. I work with AIM, and let me say, we are _most_ interested in you and the near-success of your experiment.”

“My experiment?” Bucky barks a laugh while laying a hand against the side of Steve’s neck, feeling for a pulse. It’s thready, and sluggish, but it’s there. “ _My_ experiment? I didn’t sign up for that shit.”

“Yes, how often the reluctance of the individual gets in the way of progress.” The man sighs. “I’m Dr. George Tarleton, by the way, and a team of scientists and myself were able to-”

“Hang on.” Bucky scowls at him, going beyond any level of Murder-Eyes he’s ever attempted in the past. “You’re - George Tarleton? The fuck-ass wannabe mad scientist who’s responsible for Betty Ross’s death?”

Tarleton snarls, an inhuman expression on his face. “Don’t talk of things you don’t understand-”

“No, I understand perfectly, pal.” Bucky doesn’t know where he’s getting this level of _fuck-you-sass_ from, but he’s hoping it never goes away. “You’re a piece of shit who wanted to play Creator, and you killed a bunch of innocent people - and now you’ve tried to kill Steve Rogers.”

“And I would say we’ve nearly succeeded in that, wouldn’t you, Mr. Barnes?”

“Nah.” Bucky stands, squeezing Steve’s shoulder one last time before stalking forward to stand between Tarleton and Steve, blocking the man’s line of sight. He doesn’t get to look at Steve. He doesn’t deserve to. “I’d say all you _succeeded_ in is pissing me off.”

“While I admit that the reversal of Captain Rogers’s serum was a difficult choice - although an elegant piece of science, if I do say so myself - it was a necessity, so that progress could be maintained, and we could-”

“Fuck you.” Bucky clenches his fists again and stares the scientist down. Tarleton doesn’t look like he appreciates the eye contact, but Bucky isn’t going down without a fight, not if he and Steve are trapped in this room together - “You say you’re not with Hydra, that you’re with this _AIM_ or whatever, but you and those Nazi fucks sure do talk about the same shit, huh?”

“A smaller mind like your own couldn’t-”

“Tell me what your big, important, villain idea is.” Bucky puts a hand behind his back, itching to grip the pistol there and put a bullet in the glass, if only to scare this motherfucking Hydra knock-off. “Because all this monologuing is giving me a goddamn migraine.”

Tarleton’s smile is all teeth, thin lips, and Bucky doesn’t blink. 

“You have a choice to make, Mr. Barnes.” Tarleton nods his chin at Steve. “The captain doesn’t look to good, does he?”

As if on cue, Steve starts to cough again, and Bucky lurches to the side, falling to his knees again to cradle Steve against him. 

“Breathe, baby, c’mon,” Bucky mumbles, hoping Tarleton can’t hear him. Bucky’s mind flashes with all the information he’s gleaned since childhood, all the lists of things wrong with Steve Rogers before the serum.

If Tarleton’s telling the truth - and Steve seems to think he is, even - that means Steve’s suddenly combating asthma, diabetes, arthritis, immune deficiency, and a loss of hearing all at once; add that to the beating he most _certainly_ took to get those bruises, Steve’s in terrible shape unless they can get him medical attention.

Steve’s skin is clammy, and his cheeks, which were flushed when Bucky walked in, have been drained of all color. His blue eyes stare up listlessly at Bucky, and his lips are cracked and dry when Steve squints at him. 

“Buck?” Steve shakes his head. “How did you-”

“I’m here,” Bucky whispers, tears in his eyes as he holds Steve closer. “I came for you, you jerk.”

“I-” Steve blinks, his eyes not clearing. “You need to run, Buck, please, it’s a trap-”

“I know.” Bucky nods and strokes some sweaty hair back from Steve’s forehead. “Hey, I know, it’s okay.”

“Touching.” Tarleton sounds like he doesn’t believe that, and Steve’s eyes flick over to him. They clear then, and a scowl sets on his features. Bucky knows that scowl. He welcomes that scowl. That’s the Steve-Rogers-Will-Not-Go-Down-Without-A-Fight scowl, and it means Steve has a burst of energy, and it means Steve isn’t going down at the moment.

“I can offer you an antidote, captain.” Tarleton gestures to a small square that opens in the wall next to the viewing window - a robotic arm extends into the room, clutching a vial of bright blue liquid. 

“What do you want?” Steve asks warily, trying to sit more upright and clutching Bucky’s arm.

“Well, it does come with a price.” Tarleton looks at Bucky now, smirking with a disturbing amount of smugness. “One I can only negotiate with Mr. Barnes on.”

“What is it?” Bucky asks, his voice hoarse from fear and all the screaming he’d done looking for Steve.

“Get in the chair.” Tarleton gestures to the structure in the corner of their cell and smiles affably. “Get in the chair, and let me finish the glorious work that was interrupted all those months ago.”

“No.” Steve lurches forward, but starts coughing horribly, every inhale that he can manage underscored by a nasty wheeze. “B-B-”

“Hey.” Bucky rubs Steve’s back, “Breathe, Stevie, c’mon.”

He shoots Tarleton what he hopes is an unimpressed glare. “What do you think will happen if I get that chair, exactly?”

“I think the coding that Hydra began earlier this year will be able to be completed, and you can join AIM so we can show the world what you were meant to be, a promising preview of the future: an improved, enhanced, and beautiful human being with an acceptance and compliance to what makes communities perform to optimal levels.”

“You want me to-” Bucky swallows bile that rises in his throat - they’d tried to brainwash him at that facility, they’d tried to re-wire his brain for submission, and they’d so nearly succeeded.

_Was it always going to end here, at the chair? His freedom, gone? His mind, not his own?_

Bucky lets go of Steve slowly, but Steve grips his arm tightly with one hand, his other going to Bucky’s vest, as though he could grip the bulletproof material. 

“Bucky,” Steve says beggingly. “Please-”

“So is that a yes, Mr. Barnes?” The serum extends further into the room, mocking him. “You get in the chair, and I administer this to Captain Rogers, who gets to continue his life, and continue it to the full extent he’s been enjoying for the last decade of his life?”

“I-”

“Bucky,” Steve whispers. 

“Is his life worth your soul, Mr. Barnes?”

“No,” Steve mutters, “No, it’s n-”

“It is.” Bucky stands, not letting Steve see the way his hands are shaking. He’s glad he kissed him before, before he knew they were being watched, before he knew it was the last time. He’s going to do this with dignity, and he’s going to hope that Steve has the strength to put him down when he comes out of the chair. “Of course he’s worth it.”

Tarleton looks beyond pleased with the decision, and Bucky takes a shuttering breath, takes one step forward -

And stills at the undeniable retort of a gunshot.

He flinches on instinct, already turning around to throw himself over Steve, not letting him think that maybe Steve’s already dead, how could he turn his back on him, and -

Steve’s holding a gun. His gun, the one he’d kept in the back of his waistband, and Steve’s lowering it slowly, a look of self-satisfaction on his face, still handsome through all the bruising and cuts.

Bucky looks to where the vial sits, shattered in a hundred pieces, a bullethole in the wall where it once dangled temptingly.

“What did you do?” Bucky asks, rushing to Steve’s side and wrenching the gun away from him. “Stevie, what did you _do_?”

“You idiot!” Tarleton shouts through the loudspeaker. “That was your _only_ chance at returning to being Captain America!”

“It wasn’t worth it.” Steve doesn’t look over at the shouting madman, just smiles up at Bucky, beatific through the bloodstains on his teeth. 

“Why did you do that?” Bucky sobs, patting at Steve, the bloodstains still growing on his clothes. “Why?”

“My choice,” Steve whispers. “My body is _my_ body, but my heart belongs to you, Buck. Always has. Always will.”

“You idiot!” Tarleton screeches, but he’s stopped from ranting further when the door to his office is kicked open, and a blur of red and blue renders him entirely inert, wrapped up in webbing like the world’s worst present.

Spider-Man pounds on the glass for a second, but quickly figures out that he can’t get through; he holds a finger up to Bucky and then runs from the office, and Bucky’s left cradling Steve, who sags to the side. They move together until Steve’s lying with his legs sprawled out, supported by Bucky’s chest, his head against Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky rips off his gloves all the way to stroke Steve’s hair, fighting the tears building in his throat as he clutches Steve to his body.

He knows he should be trying to get out of here, but he has a feeling it’d be useless, and besides, Steve needs him, he needs Bucky here at his side.

“Stay awake,” Bucky urges him, kissing his temple when he sees Steve’s eyes sliding shut. “Stay with me, okay?”

“Yeah.” Steve nods, his breath rattling terribly. “Hey, Buck?”

“Yeah?” Bucky closes his eyes and prays that Tony will figure out a way to get them out of here soon. 

The universe answers; there’s a detonation the size of a small bomb, and a hole appears at the far end of the room, behind the chair. Iron Man stands among the rubble when the dust clears somewhat, but the dust causes Bucky, and to a far worse extend, Steve, to start coughing.

Tony lifts his visor and takes in the situation. “Fuck,” he says, and Bucky would laugh at the understatement if he had any laughter left in him. “Stay there, I’ll go get the paramedics.” And just like that, Tony’s gone again, and Bucky’s left holding Steve upright and trying to keep him alert.

“You were saying?” Bucky prompts, nudging Steve’s cheek with his nose. 

“Oh.” Steve swallows, and it looks painful, and Bucky can’t think about that right now. “I - can I … take…”

“Take what?”

“Take you … on a date?” Steve smiles up at him, his eyes red-rimmed, breath labored.

“Yeah.” Bucky lets out a huff of breath that could be laughter. “Yeah, I’d say you should take me on a date, Captain.”

Steve closes his eyes, his smile not budging. “Good. You’re- you’re so pretty, Buck.”

“Aw shucks,” Bucky runs his fingers through Steve’s hair. “You say that to all the fellas.”

“Do not.” Steve looks truly offended through the sheen of sweat and pain on his face. “Wanna take you … and see - see the world, Buck.”

“You wanna travel the world with me, sweetheart?” Bucky asks, trying to shake Steve awake when his eyes don’t flutter, and he gets no response. “You gonna show me the sights, Rogers?”

“All of ‘em,” Steve whispers a second later. “Vacation?”

“Yeah. Yeah, we’ll go on vacation,” Bucky promises, blinking to clear his eyes because the dust is still settling around them from where Tony blew a hole in the wall.

A droplet of water slides off Steve’s bruised jaw. Bucky blinks again, and a twin droplet appears on Steve’s shoulder.

“Oh yeah?” Steve cracks a smile, and Bucky can see how much it costs him. “Now I - I know th-things are bad. You hate g-going o-on--”

He doesn’t finish the sentence; it’s probably too much energy. 

“Yeah, well, I’ll ask my principal,” Bucky promises, pressing his lips into Steve’s hair, the golden strands dampened to near-brown from sweat and blood. “We’ll go someplace beautiful, Stevie. Anyplace you’ve ever wanted to go.”

“I al-always wanted to see the Grand...Canyon,” Steve whispers, his eyes locked on Bucky’s, and Bucky nods, desperately. 

“We’ll go,” Bucky says hoarsely, his throat burning - he wants to look up to see if the paramedics are arriving, but he doesn’t want to look away from Steve, whose grip on his wrist is still tight but somehow weak. 

Bucky clasps Steve’s hand as though keeping it in place, as though he can keep Steve awake and responsive and okay and alive through the touch alone. “I’ll take you to the Grand Canyon,” Bucky swears, “We’ll drive there - And I won’t even yell at you for putting your feet on the dashboard, and we can stop at those stupid mom and pop stores you like so much, or even that awful place with the checkers and the biscuits--”

“You l-love the Cracker Barrel,” Steve wheezes out, and they both laugh, but on one it sounds like coughing, and the other, sobbing. “Buck.”

“I’m here,” he says stupidly because of course he’s here, he’s here, and, “And you’re here - and nothing’s going to change that, okay? You and me, sweetheart, ‘til the end of the line.”

“Til the end of the line,” Steve echoes, his blue eyes paler than Bucky’s ever seen. 

Talking’s clearly too much for him right now, and Bucky’s not much better off, so he presses his lips into Steve’s matted hair once more and holds him tightly, his hand still clasped around Steve’s, holding him upright, his heartbeat weak but so unbelievably precious as it knocks against Bucky’s sternum and reminds him of the most important fact of the universe.

He can hear Sam and Tony shouting down the corridor, and there’s the pounding of feet; a team of SHIELD medics burst in through the hole Tony had creatively placed in the wall minutes ago, and they swarm around Bucky and Steve, still huddled together on the floor. 

After some pushing (the medics) and some snapping of teeth (Bucky), Steve isn’t separated from Bucky. When he’s placed on a gurney and taken for immediate Medevac, Bucky goes with him, holding his hand the whole time, even when they put him under sedation, and Steve’s eyes slip shut, because it’s until the end of the line, and the end isn’t fucking today, not if James Buchanan Barnes has anything to do with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mumbles something about happy endings/wrap-ups/softer times for our boys


	19. Not Linear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve recovers from losing the serum, and struggles with another world-changing shift in perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hello
> 
> Warnings abound in this chapter. The title of it refers to the simple fact that _recovery isn't linear_
> 
> Steve massively struggles with losing his powers (and, to clarify, he's roughly the same size as he was before, but not as beefy, but still tall and much larger than he was as pre-serum SGR in the 30s) and struggles a lot with mental health. 
> 
> Check the **Warnings** for the chapter please!  
> Mentions of insulin injections/pumps/pens - no mention of needles, but could still be an issue potentially
> 
> POV character experiences a major depressive episode that leaves him with intense feelings of self-hatred. Frequent depictions of depression//how distant it makes one feel//how it makes one react
> 
> Steve can be cruel and angry and bitter in his depression. (This chapter is meant to be a realistic representation of depression, and for some people, depression does manifest in outbursts of anger - not everyone, but I in particular can be snarly when I'm going through an episode)
> 
> Steve pushes away people closest to him, INCLUDING Bucky. He says hurtful and unkind things about himself and snaps at Bucky. He's immediately apologetic, but his depression stops him from apologizing in the moment. (If you're worried, know that the chapter ends on a positive/hopeful note). 
> 
> Bucky and Steve have an emotionally charged argument (again, resolution achieved by end of chapter)
> 
> It's an emotionally draining chapter, so I'd recommend reading when and if you have the energy/spoons to do so! Steve goes through a cycle of emotions and feelings, his speech and actions sometimes contradicts what he thinks, he goes through some emotional whiplash, hits some revelations only to crash a little more, and struggles to be emotionally open with his partner and to begin his emotional/mental recovery.
> 
> That being said, I do hope you enjoy the beginning of the end of this fic!

“And if the injections don’t work, we can put you on a pump, which will release the bolus at programmed times: it works like a mini pancreas outside your body, and - Captain Rogers, are you listening?”

Steve blinks and looks away from the window, through which he can see the wind blowing through trees of a beautiful orchard, the light dappled through the branches, striking the grass and casting a gorgeous golden pall over the scene. For the first time in weeks, his fingers itch for his pencils.

“Sorry, Dr. Cho.” Steve smiles at the woman sitting on the right side of his bed, who gives him an expression that combines raised eyebrows and pursed lips, and is so reminiscent of Sarah Rogers in 1935 that it hurts his heart to look at her straight on. “Helen. Sorry. I - my mind drifted.”

Her expression softens but only in the slightest. “Your blood sugar is going to be the hardest thing to manage once your treatment finishes. Luckily, we can combat your immune disorder here and now, but I don’t need to tell you Type 1 Diabetes is no joke.” 

“No.” Steve shakes his head and folds his hands in his lap carefully. “It’s really not.”

People have died rationing their insulin  _ in this decade.  _ He’s fought for lower insulin prices with teeth bared since he came out of the ice - how something so vital and relatively inexpensive to produce can cost so much infuriates him. Even when he thought he’d left his diabetes in the 40’s, he could still feel the keen sting of injustice - and if there’s one thing that’s been constant for the last century or so, it’s his ability to feel a constant level of anger no matter how his body physically feels. 

Steve coughs and looks back out the window, which has switched to a scene of a beach: Coney Island unless he’s mistaken. 

Tony’s been playing around with the presets on the window here on the fortieth floor of the Avengers Tower, and Steve has a hunch Tony’s constant tinkering has more to do with the man thinking he needs an excuse to sit with Steve, and less to do with any sort of mechanical curiosity. 

“And how are you feeling, Steve?”

“Tired,” he says honestly. The treatment isn’t necessarily pleasant, nor is the healing from the multiple rib fractures and the broken leg he suffered at the hands of Tarleton and Clinton. 

“I can let you rest.” 

Dr. Cho leaves the insulin pen and its cartridges on his bedside table, and even with his lessened senses and awareness, Steve can still catch the way her hand hesitates over the kit. He offers her a tight smile, and she returns it before excusing herself and exiting his room.

He closes his eyes when the doors close behind Helen, and it feels like he’s only just closed them when JARVIS chimes and wakes him. Steve blinks awake blearily and notes how the light through the holographic window has changed, suggesting that he really has been asleep longer than he thought; he feels groggy enough to support that theory.

[Captain, I do apologize, but you have a visitor who is adamant to see you.]

“Buck?” He sits up and coughs, wincing at the pull of pain through his left ribs, but when he checks the time, he sees it’s only one in the afternoon - Bucky’s still at school.

[It is not Mr. Barnes, but if you would like to block visitation to your room until Mr. Barnes arrives, I can certainly do so. Mr. Barton can wait.]

“No, no.” Steve sighs and props himself up on his pillows, wincing miserably and trying not to fall too hard into the raw, angry, self-hatred of being in a sick-bed. “Let Clint in. Thanks, JARVIS.”

Clint’s barely off the elevator before he starts signing furiously at Steve. Steve blinks and squints and then grabs the glasses off the side table so he can see what Clint’s saying. 

“Sorry,” Clint says out loud, “Forgot.” 

His friend throws himself in the chair at Steve’s bedside and starts signing again, from the top of the story clearly because it makes sense. 

_ Nat is mad at me, _ Clint grimaces.  _ Says I forgot her birthday. _

_ Her birthday is in August?  _ Steve points out with a frown.

_ Not her Stark-appointed birthday.  _ Clint sighs dramatically, rolling his eyes.  _ Her real birthday. _

_ When’s her real birthday? _ He literally has no idea.

_ I literally have no idea! _ Steve snorts at the unintentional jinx that Clint isn’t aware of, and after a beat, Clint cracks a smile too.  _ I guess some time between August and October, right? _

Steve nods and tilts his head back, grinning at the ceiling, Clint’s dilemma a welcome distraction from the plethora of irritations he was suffering before his friend walked up. When he looks back at Clint, he’s got his face buried in his hands, clearly mumbling something under his breath. Clint looks back up and scowls.

_ What would Bucky do if you forgot his birthday? _

_ It’s March 10, _ Steve answers immediately, and Clint rolls his eyes so hard, Steve’s surprised they don’t fall clean out of his head.

_ I didn’t ask  _ when  _ Bucky’s birthday is. I know when Bucky’s birthday is! He’s my best friend! _

Steve puts a hand over his heart and pouts at Clint. “Awwwww.”

_ Fuck off. _

_ Nat is your wife. By that logic, you should know her birthday, too.  _ Steve smirks at Clint, who puts his feet up on Steve’s bed in an attempt to kick his unbroken right leg.

_ That’s different! Bucky isn’t a super murder spy!  _ Clint gives him big puppy eyes.  _ What would your partner do if you forgot his birthday? And how would you make it up to him? _

Steve sighs, long-suffering and patient, and he makes sure Clint sees it.  _ Bucky hates his birthday,  _ Steve reminds Clint,  _ So I don’t think he’d particularly be angry that we didn’t celebrate it, probably just hurt that I forgot it. But I’d make sure that he could pick a day in the very near future where we could do things right, and I’d let him pick everything we did that day.  _ He pauses, thinking for a second, and then finishes by signing,  _ And I’d treat him like a king for at least two months.  _

That part shouldn’t be hard for Clint - he definitely adores Nat, it’s clear as the day is long. 

“Fine.” Clint huffs and leaves his feet on the bed, sinking back in his chair in a way that looks uncomfortable, but knowing his bizarre flexibility is probably more comfortable than Steve is on a top-of-the-line hospital bed with six pillows. “TV?”

Steve grabs the remote and tosses it at Clint, who turns on the monitor on the opposite wall, and he makes sure to click the captions on before setting the remote down.

The afternoon news comes on, and Steve catches a few lines of dialogue between the reporters, the banner at the bottom of the screen reading  _ Hero Teacher Returns to School!  _

“Aw, invasion of privacy, no.” Clint groans, already reaching for the remote.

It’s too late; Steve can see footage of the school he hasn’t been to since the spring, the camera zooming in on a familiar, lanky figure. 

“-- _ And James Barnes has been heralded by the community for these efforts, after weeks of intense debate on social media over his alleged powers.”  _

Shaky cellphone footage fills the screen, clearly taken from the school bus due to the framing and the screams of terrified children: Bucky punches clean through a robot’s head, and then shoves the back of the bus hard away from an unseen danger - the focus on the screen jerks, hard, and a teenager is heard screaming “ _ Mr. Barnes! Behind you!”  _ before the footage cuts out.

“Didn’t Bucky go back last week?”

“Yeah.” Steve shrugs at Clint’s inquisitive expression, switching to signing again because the audio from the television set is making it hard to focus on his voice.  _ Pepper managed to keep his real return under wraps, in case it …  _ he searches for what to say,  _ didn’t go well.  _

Clint nods, considering this.  _ Makes sense.  _

They go back to watching, the remote poised in Clint’s hand, as Tonya Samson responds to a question posed to her by the station’s reporter on the scene. 

“We’re thrilled to have Mr. Barnes back,” Tonya says with a firmness and an edge to her voice Steve can’t help but respect. She sounds almost like she could be issuing orders on a battlefield; he knows he would listen. “And your concern is certainly misplaced: He was one of our finest teachers before the incident, and he’s come back to work with an admirable energy that our entire school community finds invigorating.”

Clint hits the channel up button, and then groans to himself. “Ugh, Fox, no.”

He lifts the remote again, but Steve holds out a stilling hand. “Wait.”

Christine Everhart is on screen, and she’s outside Bucky’s school. Unlike the reporter from the last channel, she clearly hasn’t been invited on campus for an interview. Teenagers stream behind her through the gated fence around the school property.

“...and as students return from their lunch hour, it’s easy to see the exhaustion on their faces. The media circus created by one selfish teacher’s actions and disruptive return to the school has clearly taken a toll on these brave, young Americans.”

A girl - Margot, if Steve isn’t mistaken, one of the students Bucky has had for years - pauses behind Everhart when she hears this, with such a look of total and complete disgust on her face that Steve has to bite back a laugh in response.

“These brave children clearly have something to say.” Everhart turns with a false smile to the students who are unlucky enough to have been right there when she turned. “Any thoughts?”

“Yeah.” A short girl with braids scowls at the reporter. “We’re minors. Don’t you need to talk to our parents first?”

“Uhm.” Everhart falters and then turns to another teenanger; by now, multiple students have stopped, and Steve recognizes the look on their faces.

It’s oddly reminiscent of sharks circling chum, a predator staring down its prey. If he had half an ounce of compassion left for this woman, he’d almost feel bad for her.

“And you?” She turns to the small, blond boy from the bus who still has his strong, dark-haired friend standing right behind him. “Clearly you and your friend have an opinion on danger being brought to your school.”

“I got opinions.” The blond boy nods and then smiles, all teeth. “And if you want ‘em, you can follow my twitter.” He turns to go, but then stops, and stares at Everhart in the face, his expression so chilling, Steve shivers in his bed. “And you oughta be ashamed of yourself, going after Mr. Barnes like this. You’re already a disrespect to the institution of the free press, why d’you hafta go after the best teacher any of us have ever had? Is seeing someone be competent in their field that [ _bleep]_ -ing triggering for you? Huh?”

“Danny,” the larger boy wraps an arm around the little firecracker’s middle and shifts him back, a move that should have angered the spitfire even more, but instead Danny seems to relax into the touch, sparks still flying from his eyes, but he’s clearly biting his tongue now. “Danny, she isn’t worth it, let’s go inside.” 

Danny nods, turns to go, the other boy’s hand on his shoulder.

“Yes, maybe listen to your friend more often.” Everhart’s chipper, fake smile seems unscathed by the tiny kid’s tirade, and Steve feels irritated on his behalf, even under all the itchy, uncomfortable anxiety of seeing someone go after Bucky. 

“Actually.” Danny turns around, facing the camera and reporter with a gleam in his eye that can only be described as downright ornery. “He’s my boyfriend.” 

“ _ Danny, _ ” the other boy hisses, slapping a hand to his foreheard.

“Jim’s my boyfriend! And I love him!” Danny is now being ushered physically back by his boyfriend, who seems more amusedly embarrassed than irritated by Danny - Steve gets the feeling that Jim is more than used to this sort of outburst from Danny - “So suck on that, you [ _ bleep _ ]-ing homophobic piece of-”

The audio to Danny recedes as he’s pulled away towards the front of the school, and Christine Everhart’s smile  _ does  _ falter a little bit as she adjusts her blazer and straightens out her shoulders to give the camera a falsely grim look.

“And as you can see, the morality at this school has taken a drastic plummet from what you would expect of one of the finer institutions of Brooklyn. It seems only yesterday that-”

“Ma’am?” A tall, thin boy with flaming red hair pauses at the edge of the frame. 

“--I - yes?” Everhart falters again, put off by the appearance of the boy, and no doubt, his manners. “Who are you?”

“I’m Tom.” He holds his hand out, and Everhart takes it, shaking it heartily, her fake-smile plastered back on her face. “I’ve been going here since the eighth grade; I’m a senior now.”

“Oh!” She beams at him, eager for the scoop, but Steve can already feel a confused smile stretching across his face.

That kid is  _ definitely  _ Tom Myers, and if Steve remembers  _ anything  _ from Bucky’s stories about school (and he remembers all of them), it’s that Tom is what the youth call “ride or die” for Mr. Barnes. 

“Perhaps you’d like to give a statement on how you’ve been handling this transition?”

“I would, yeah.” Tom smiles at Everhart, and then at the camera. “A statement benefiting the honor and dignity of your esteemed network.”

“How … lovely.” Everhart’s smile has frozen again, and Tom grins evilly before flipping off the camera with both hands. 

“Cut!” Everhart hisses, “Cut, cut!” 

Steve misses how it wraps up because he laughs so hard he starts wheezing, and Clint has to help him with his inhaler.

***

“Tom’s a meme.” Bucky sinks into the chair at Steve’s side, already wiping a hand over his face tiredly. 

Steve settles back against his pillows, a little flustered from the deep kiss Bucky pulled him into when he walked in. “A meme?” Steve closes his eyes and smiles. “Is that one of those new-fangled internet things?”

“Babe, you have an entire meme folder on your phone, don’t give me that.”

Steve cracks open an eye and smiles at the half-scowl Bucky’s giving him. “Guilty. How was the rest of your day?”

“You mean besides the media circus, and my children competing to see who can top the news cycle the longest?” Bucky shrugs and then jabs his thumb at the overstuffed messenger bag at his side. “Collected two sets of research papers after lunch. Get ready to see grumpy Bucky.”

“Aren’t you always grumpy?” 

“Someone’s in a mood,” Bucky teases, leaning forward to rest his cheek on Steve’s shin, nuzzling into it a little bit. 

“Someone’s sick of sitting in this fucking bed,” Steve admits with a frown, and Bucky nuzzles him more. “I’m sick of being useless.”

Bucky stops nuzzling abruptly. “You aren’t useless.”

“Feeling useless, then.” Steve avoids the fight nimbly enough; as sweet as Bucky’s intentions are, it’s like arguing with the goddamn sun when it comes to Steve’s sudden, non-existent self-esteem. 

He knows he needs to make an appointment with his therapist, but he’s been hiding behind the guise of physical therapy and the very real exhaustion he’s facing in recovery. Wendy had been by last week, but she’d insisted it wasn’t a therapy session, just a chance to catch up and check in on her favorite patient (Steve appreciates that she understood they were definitely being monitored in the Tower, and that she wanted to keep his privacy intact, and he also appreciates not having to delve into the wreck his thoughts have become after he was de-serumed).

Bucky doesn’t push his correction, but his eyes are painfully sad when he takes Steve’s hand a second later and presses his lips to it. “I love you,” Bucky says in a way that manages to sound like a reminder.

“Love you too, Buck.” Steve smiles at him, wondering if that will be enough to keep Bucky around now that he’s essentially as useful as a broken watch. Fine to look at, everything else, well…

There’s a knock at the door, and Bucky doesn’t lift his head when JARVIS announces [Mr. Stark, here to see you, sirs]. 

“Tell Tony he can come in, thanks, JARVIS.” 

The doors hiss open a second later, and Bucky squints at Tony a little meanly when he plops down in the chair opposite to him. 

“Hey, Stark, endanger any minors today?”

Tony waves a hand at Bucky who grumbles and buries his face in Steve’s leg again, but Tony’s smiling - completely unapologetic - when he turns to Steve. 

“How are you feeling, Cap?”

“I’m fine,” Steve repeats, his favorite phrase these days. “What’s up, Stark?”

“Stark Industries is throwing their annual Halloween party tonight,” Tony leans back in his chair. “Wondering if I can spring you for the evening, maybe parade you around as a big old  _ fuck you  _ to whatever criminal organizations might be watching.”

Steve laughs without any real mirth. “I’m not feeling up for a party, Tony.”

“Are you sure?” Bucky asks, and Steve gives him a truly apologetic smile. 

Halloween’s his favorite non-religious holiday, after all (and yes, he still feels like shit that he was in a medically induced coma for most of Sukkot, Bucky’s favorite holiday, but at least his guilt is lessened by the fact that Wanda and Pietro had observed it with Bucky), and they’d planned on going as a couple this year. 

‘Yeah, I’m sure.” Steve squeezes his hand. “Hamilton and Laurens can wait a year, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Bucky’s smile is somewhat dimmed, and Tony shoots Steve an unreadable look. “Next year, then.”

“Sorry,” Steve whispers, and Tony clears his throat, no doubt feeling awkward that his question caused this kind of response. 

“Pepper’s going as an avocado,” Tony offers, and that does distract them. 

“What?”

“You know, an avocado cut in half, and the baby is the,” Tony gestures around his middle, “...pit...anyway, uh, how’s the window treating you, Cap?”

Tony bounces up to go examine the fixture, so he misses the way Steve tenses when he says his old nickname. He grits his teeth and doesn’t say anything, and Bucky squeezes his hand, his eyes studying him worriedly.

“I think the window looks great,” Bucky offers. “But - Tony, I was wondering if you could show me that project your intern put on your Snap story.”

“The robotic arm? I can’t believe I got Wakanda to actually send me some vibranium, it’s so much lighter weight than the other alloys I’ve been using, and the durability of it -” Tony rubs his goatee and squints at Bucky. “How do you know my  _ intern  _ put it on my Snap...thing. I’m good with tech. I’m not an old man!”

“Hey,” Steve coughs and pushes himself up further on his pillows. “I am an old man, and I  _ do  _ know how to use Snapchat.”

“A terrifying thought.” Bucky stands and kisses Steve’s cheek. “So, are you going to show me the prototype, or am I going to have to get that intern to show me?”

“How do you know I have an intern.” Tony’s suddenly studying the opposite wall with intense interest.

“Pepper?” Bucky frowns at him. “She mentioned that you’d taken on a high-schooler from a low-income, single guardian household as a tech intern - which is super cool of you by the way.”

“Yeah.” Tony rubs the back of his neck. “I guess you could...uh...meet my intern...he’d be downstairs in the lab by now, but he might be busy with … something. Like that … project I gave him. Mhm. I better go see if he’s-” Tony runs out the door without finishing his thought, and Bucky shakes his head in wonderment.

“Just when you think Stark can’t get any weirder. Who wouldn’t want me meeting their intern? I’m a delight.”

“You are a delight.” Steve fakes a yawn and settles back on his pillows. “And if you’re off, I’m going to take a nap.”

“Okay.” 

Bucky’s eyes soften as he cups Steve’s face and gives him a lingering kiss. Steve doesn’t have to fake kissing him back, but he does have contain the level of desperation he feels with Bucky kissing him; at this point, any kiss could be the last one. 

“I don’t need to go to the party,” Bucky points out. “I’d be happy to sit here with you and watch Hocus Pocus. I know it’s on your list.”

Steve shrugs with a smile. “I’ll probably be sleeping until tomorrow. You should go have fun.”

“Alright.” Bucky’s expression doesn’t give anything away, and Steve hopes his doesn’t either. “I’ll see you later, then. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

When the doors close behind Bucky, Steve lies back and stares at the ceiling, trying not to think about Bucky at the party, his friends at the party, all his former teammates at a party, dancing and laughing and living without him, the hole he might have made in the fabric of their team already fading; Sam will take the shield, it’s been decided, and Nat will lead the team, and Bucky will find someone better at this party (and if not this party, the next one, or the next), and everyone will leave him behind.

And, with the bitter anger in his chest, Steve doesn't let the self-pitying tears slip out of his eyes as he thinks that maybe, just maybe, that’s for the best.

***

He doesn’t spend Halloween alone; Wanda and Pietro show up with uncanny timing, right around the start of Stark’s party, and Wanda drapes herself against Steve’s side, and Pietro zips around the room in between bad horror movies. He even zips out and buys a ridiculous amount of candy (Steve triple-checks to make sure unsuspecting homes weren’t visited by the speedy teen, and no matter what the kid says, he can’t shake the image of Pietro going from door to door in a dozen different outfits in under five minutes), which he eats with great aplomb.

It’s not the worst way to spend the night, and he has a feeling Wanda has more than a little to do with how easily he slips into a deep and dreamless sleep around ten p.m., after they’ve shown him the Avengers official Instagram post with all his friends crammed into the frame (Bucky, Clint, and Sam are dressed as the Three Musketeers, which Steve has to admit is adorable, even through the vague pit of jealousy burning in his stomach), and the caption ‘ _ Missing our Captain - Happy Halloween!”.  _

Halloween passes, and so does the start of November, and Steve is almost ready to be discharged when things start to fall apart in his head a little more.

It’s like his physical recovery has left room for the reminder that he has depression, and that depression has come to settle over him like a cloud, making him short-tempered and listless, bored with everything but hopelessly understimulated at the same time. He bites Pietro’s head off without meaning to, earning him a scowl from Wanda that burns him to his toes; he avoids Dr. Cho’s questions about his well-being by making snarky comments about the news; Clint continues visiting him through all his vitriol, but sometimes he doesn’t say a word and just pops his feet up, shuts off his hearing aids, and takes a nap when Steve starts to get bitter.

He doesn’t like being trapped in this bed - doesn’t like how it feels a lot like the entire decade of the 1930s - he doesn’t like being useless, and shamefully,  _ shamefully,  _ he doesn’t like how Bucky looks healthier and healthier every time he sees him.

And Bucky looks  _ good.  _ It’s as though his body seems to have stopped fighting the serum entirely, his frame filling out, his hair growing thicker and shinier, his skin almost glowing with health. Steve can’t tell what’s real and what’s mixed up with jealousy in his head, and he hates it because he’s so fucking happy Bucky’s healthy, and he should be happy that Bucky’s happy, but Bucky’s happy and Steve’s a miserable piece of shit who’s bringing nothing to his life besides bitter comments and self-deprecating humor (take the serum away and what is he, but a scrawny kid from the wrong side of Brooklyn with a matryr complex and a list of ailments longer than his arm), so if Bucky’s happy it has  _ nothing  _ to do with Steve.

He can’t protect Bucky anymore (not that he needs it), he can’t even stay awake longer than three hours - he can’t make Bucky happy. Their lives are spiralling in different directions, Bucky going up and up, and Steve already sinking into the comfortable and familiar embrace of rock bottom. 

Part of him knows it’s the depression talking, the self-hatred and self-doubt settling over his shoulders like a thick curtain of sludge, and any bit of logic he has left wants him to know that when he gets out of bed ( _ when  _ and not  _ if  _ because the immune disorder is almost sorted by Dr. Cho’s work and Wanda’s help, and diabetes isn’t the deadly diagnosis it used to be) he’ll start to feel better, and he needs to feel the sun on his skin again and breathe fresh air in longer than fifteen minute bouts, but he’s angry. He’s angry, and he’s sick of being angry, and he’s sick of being sick, and the impotence he feels threatens to choke him at any given second.

Steve wants to pretend he’s doing a good job of hiding it from Bucky, and maybe he is because Bucky keeps coming to see him, every day, and spends every minute of the weekend with him, sometimes sitting quietly at Steve’s side with a borrowed writing desk where he does his grading. He looks so sweet when he’s working, the glasses perched on his nose making him look endearingly intellectual (whereas Steve knows his glasses make  _ him  _ look like a square), his hair pulled back from his handsome face, his tongue between his perfect white teeth. Bucky is beautiful, and it hurts to look at him, and Steve can’t imagine what makes Bucky look up from his work and smile at him every so often, like Steve did something clever and not just snort at a line on the tv shows that play in the background sometimes. 

Frequently, Bucky tells Steve he loves him - and Steve says it back with no shortage of honesty, and he’s near-desperate in his honesty, he loves Bucky, he  _ loves  _ him, even though he’s no good for him - and he kisses Steve like he loves him, and he talks to Steve like he loves him, but something dark and small and mean inside of Steve, something that’s been there since he was a kid and had been more or less silenced when he went off to war the first time, tells Steve that it’s in Bucky’s nature to be kind, and in Bucky’s nature to love a stray, and all it’s going to take is for Bucky to take one good, hard look at Steve, into his soul, into the broken pieces of his mind, and he won’t come back.

And it’s the day before he’s released from his recovery room that he makes the worst mistake he’s made since he betrayed Bucky back in June. 

He makes the appointment with Wendy, the one he can’t put off anymore, not with what he knows is a major depressive episode hanging over him (it’s been over ten days of non-stop anger and fury and deadened reactions to things), and he apologizes to Dr. Cho for his behavior, which she waves off amiably enough, but he insists on making a proper apology anyway. Steve gets ready to leave, and he gets ready to face the world as Steve Rogers, and not Captain America, and for all he’s spent the last five years trying to get the media to see the difference, he has a sinking suspicion that it’s going to be the hardest battle of his life to accept the difference himself. 

It’s right after this revelation that Steve’s sitting in bed (like always) his face buried in his hands, that the door opens and a familiar voice greets him.

“Hey, handsome.” Bucky plops down in the chair next to him. “Twelve hours more and you can finally blow this popsicle stand.”

“Popsicle stand?” Steve looks up from his hands, slightly deterred from his self-loathing for the moment. Bucky’s good like that.

“Zayde used to say it.” Bucky gives him a smile so whole and kind, that Steve’s sent right back into self-loathing because Bucky has been through  _ so  _ much, arguably more than Steve has - the death of his family, watching his sister die, losing his grandparents, escaping an abusive relationship, experimentation and torutre - and he’s still kind. 

Bucky struggles with mental illness too, Steve knows, but  _ his  _ depression and anxiety don’t turn him into a snarling monster; he struggles valiantly on in silence, helping others even when he’s at his lowest, and Steve can’t even get out of bed. Bucky’s a better man than he is, something Steve’s always known, but what if that’s the reason why Bucky’s healthy, and Steve’s cursed with this weakness again, weakness that reflects how awful he is inside, and -

Bucky’s staring at him in horror, and Steve can’t tell why, until he closes his mouth and swallows, throat dry, and realizes - 

Fuck. He said all that out loud.

“You … you don’t really think all that, do you?” Bucky’s eyes are devastated, but the rest of his expression, his body language is carefully, carefully calm. “Steve?”

“I…” Steve clears his throat and stares down at his blanket mulishly, his ears burning. “Is it bad if I do?”

“You aren’t cursed.” Bucky grips Steve’s hand, and for the first time since he met Bucky, Steve wants to pull away from his touch if only because everything he touches gets ruined. “Listen to me. You aren’t cursed - there’s nothing wrong inside of you.”

“You don’t know that.” Steve huffs a bitter laugh. “You can’t see inside my head. Unless that’s another power we don’t know about?”

Bucky pulls away from him, and the snarling little monster inside of Steve feels vindictively good about that, even as the rest of him, pushed down and distanced from the monster, cries out for Bucky to come back.

“You aren’t being fair.” Bucky’s voice is firm, but Steve doesn’t look up to see his face. Bucky’s eyes can get Steve to do or say anything, and right now, the little monster’s at the wheel. “I know … I know you’re hurting, and you’ve been trying to hide that from me, but I could see it, Stevie, I could, and I know that everything feels like shit right now, but that is completely unfair.”

“Unfair.” Steve snorts again. “Add that to the list.”

“What list.” Bucky sounds more tense now, makes it sound like not a question.

“Sick. Powerless. Useless.  _ Unfair. _ ”

“Nobody thinks you’re useless,” Bucky reaches for his hands again, and while Steve doesn’t pull away, he doesn’t lean into the contact the way he normally would. Either way, it doesn’t deter Bucky. “Hey. You know that, right? We all love you, and we still need you, Steve. We do. Especially … especially me. I need you, okay?”

“You think you do,” Steve mutters. “But you’ll figure it out. You’ll figure out I’m no good for you--”

“-- I think I can be the judge of that--”

“-- and you’ll figure out that there’s no point in loving me,” Steve snaps, his voice rising above Bucky’s. He pulls his hands away from Bucky and balls them into fists. “And you’ll leave.”

“Do you really think that?” Bucky demands, and Steve makes himself stare Bucky in the face. 

He immediately wishes he hadn’t because Bucky’s clearly inches away from crying, and that stabs at Steve somewhere he can still feel things, something raw and visceral that lies under the surface of the dark cloud that’s hovering over him. 

“Answer me,” Bucky says furiously, color high on his cheeks and his eyes shining with tears. “Do you really think that I’ll leave you, or is that just … just how you feel right now talking? Because I can understand both, I really can, more than you think, but if it’s the latter, if it’s just how shitty you feel doing the talking, I might be able to keep my shit together better because … because it’ll pass, Steve, it will.”

“It’s not.” Steve feels his fury leaving him in a second, quick and gone without a trace because he couldn’t ever really be angry with Bucky, not for being kind and good and healthy and sweet. “I - I felt that way when I was still strong.”

“What?” Bucky blinks, and a tear slips down his cheekbone. A month ago, Steve would have wiped it away, but now his hands feel like lead at his sides. “Wh-what do you mean-”

“You were always going to leave me,” Steve whispers, tears of his own burning in his throat. He clears it with a rough noise before continuing. “I always - always felt that way, always knew it. You’re so much smarter than me, Buck, and… and I ruined your life, brought Hydra to your doorstep--”

“--Excuse the fuck out of your matryr ass, but Hydra found me  _ years  _ before I met you,” Bucky snaps. “Don’t you fucking try to take that responsibility on yourself - they woulda found me, maybe slower, mabe in a different way, but those Nazi fucks have nothing to do with you.”

Steve offers him a half-smile. “I don’t even make you happy anymore.”

“What?” Bucky dashes tears out of his eye with a quick brush of his hand over his face. “That’s so fuckin’ - Steve, you always make me happy.”

“Ain’t happy right now.”

“No shit! Because you’re talkin’ nonsense, of course I’m not happy,” Bucky’s Brooklyn accent comes through clear as day, even though the thickness in his voice, and Steve tries to memorize the way it sounds, but the serum’s gone and so is his eidetic memory, so he knows it’ll fade with time. 

Maybe that’s for the best.

“Do you really think that what happened last month would keep me from loving you?” Bucky asks, sitting up taller in his chair. He makes no effort to wipe away the next round of tears that spill out of his blue eyes.

“Yes.” Steve doesn’t let himself look away. “No one loved me before the serum, Buck, I won’t take it personal when you figure out-”

“Bullshit.” Bucky grips the armchair of his seat and the metal groans under his fingers. “Don’t you fucking say that.”

“It’s true--”

“Sarah Rogers,” Bucky hisses, and the sound of his mother’s name has Steve’s mouth snapping shut. “Sarah Rogers loved you every second she knew you. And I get that you feel like shit and it’s makin’ it hard to think straight, but don’t you  _ dare  _ try to say no one loved you before the serum when your mother gave everything she had to make your life better.”

Steve has nothing to say to that, and that’s a good thing because Bucky clearly isn’t done.

“Peggy Carter wrote in her journals  _ multiple  _ times that she saw a spark in you when you met. That she knew you’d be important. And sure, maybe she didn’t love you at that point, but she didn’t know you yet, you schmuck! She loved you for all your flaws that were  _ definitely  _ there before the serum, and after, and I know because I love you like she did.” Bucky’s expression is thunderous, and Steve feels himself torn between wanting to ask for forgiveness and wanting to hide under his covers. 

“Dr. Erksine died because he saw that same spark in you. He cared about you. And sure, maybe Sarah Rogers, Peggy Carter, and Abraham Erksine,  _ alav ha-shalom _ , weren’t fawning over you and screaming your name like the entire fucking country did when you were Captain America, but they loved you as Steve Rogers, the little asshole with the big mouth, and if you think that I don’t fit on a fucking tier with those people, that I couldn’t  _ possibly  _ love Steve Rogers, normal human being, then just say it and don’t hide behind shit excuses!”

“Buck, I-” Steve stops himself, the lump in his throat too big, the cloud of his depression suddenly yanked away and leaving only teeming, bitter regret and guilt in its place, throbbing like an open wound.

Mistaking his inability to talk for affirmation, Bucky lets out a choked sob, really crying now, and Steve can’t find the strength to lift his hand to keep him there before Bucky stands up, hand over his mouth, and exits the room and Steve’s sight.

It’s not the first time Bucky’s had to walk away from him, but it doesn’t hurt any less for its familiarity. He forces himself to sit up, trying to breathe through the tears overwhelming him, and he shouts at the closed door. 

“Bucky!” His voice breaks miserably, and he tries to find the energy to swing his legs out of bed but he can’t, he just can’t, and Bucky’s gone and hurting and it’s all his fault. “Bucky-”

Steve drops his head down and sobs in earnest, horrible, ugly, wracking sobs that make it almost impossible to catch his breath. He’s definitely going to need his inhaler by the end of this, but for now, he sits in bed, alone, and sobs, his heart not breaking so much as broken, apologies to Bucky, to Tony, to Pietro, to Dr. Cho, to everyone he’s been miserable to the last few weeks, choking him and weighing him down, pushing him under like he’s drowning all over again, the ice and the plane and the water all of his own creation this time.

And it’s three minutes into this crying jag that Steve realizes that it’s the first time he’s cried since Tarleton shot him.

The doors open a few minutes after Steve’s regained control of his breathing, and his breath catches in his throat again, caught up in the hope that it’s Bucky coming back to read him the riot act again because at least it will mean Bucky isn’t gone, but it’s Dr. Cho, who sweeps in with all the fury of a bird of prey.

She slaps a box of tissues into his hand and pushes him into an upright position. “Breathe,” she instructs so severely, Steve can’t manage his typical response of  _ I am breathin’, doc.  _

“Honestly, Captain, I don’t know why you’re doing this to yourself,” Dr. Cho starts, but Steve isn’t able to keep it back today.

“I’m not Captain America anymore,” he reminds her, his voice wavering on every word. 

Helen Cho gives him a look of powerful incredulity. “Is that what this is about?” She lifts an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Self-pity?”

Steve mumbles under his breath because  _ isn’t he allowed to self pity right now?  _ but Dr. Cho isn’t having it.

“Hm? What was that, Captain?” She puts her hands on her hip and scowls at him. “Yes, Captain, the rank given to you by your government in 1942, the rank you’ve earned over and over again in your decade of service? Or do you think you lost your rank that day as well as your powers?”

“I’m not an Avenger anymore,” Steve says stubbornly. “I don’t deserve-”

“Oh.” Dr. Cho makes a rude noise of disbelief, and Steve’s stunned into silence for what feels like the tenth time that day. “You think because you don’t have powers anymore, you’re no longer an Avenger? That you aren’t special anymore?”

“I’m not. I used to be special, but I’m not anymore,” Steve whispers, embarrassed that Helen’s found the issue so easily. “I’m only human now.”

“Am I not special?” Dr. Cho levels him with a glare hot enough to burn. “Am I  _ only  _ human?”

“No.” He rushes to explain. “No, Helen, please, you’re - you’re one of the most brilliant people alive, and you’re - you’re kind and warm and incredibly special. It couldn’t be more different. Without the serum - I - well, everything special about me came outta that bottle.”

“You were the first Avenger, Steven Grant Rogers.” If she flicked him in the forehead, he wouldn’t be surprised. “The Avengers exist because you were special. And that serum was only given to you because you were special. It worked because you were special. And you still are! You were a goddamn Avenger before you got the serum, and you’re still a goddamn Avenger now.”

Steve racks his brain and honestly can’t think of a time he’s heard Helen curse before now. 

“The less time you spend pushing away the people who love you and who can love you without the serum, the better off you’ll be, and the better Mr. Barnes will be.”

He blinks at her, confused and a little ashamed. “What do you-”

“You think that I, the doctor who monitors your room 24/7 while you recover, did not notice your vital signs jumping while you were shouting at that nice man? You think I didn’t hear what you said to Mr. Barnes? He’s been through hell and back, and yes, it’s often connected in some way to you, but you still want to throw away what you have, what, because - because you are human? You were always human!”

“Guess it’s been hard to think like that recently,” Steve admits, the guilt burning him up too much for his depression to take the wheel again; instead, it grumbles in the back seat like a bad passenger with too many opinions.

“Yes.” Dr. Cho does soften at that, only slightly. “And I think it is a very wise choice for you to return to therapy. What happened to you was horrible, Captain, no one could dispute that. But it’s no reason to self-punish for the rest of your life, not when your self-punishment means denying your friends and family, the people who love you, a chance to express their love for you, and not when it denies the entire world a chance to experience you as you really are, and not when it denies  _ you  _ the chance to experience everything and anything you might want to.”

Steve nods and folds his hands in his lap. “I - I really fucked up with Bucky, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” Helen nods and smiles at him. “You did. But, I have a feeling you didn’t fuck up forever.”

“How do you know that?”

Dr. Cho gives him a teasing smile, her eyes going to the door on his left. 

He couldn’t hear the doors opening, and his attention had been on the doctor the whole time, so Steve is truly and completely shocked to see Bucky standing there, his eyes red and face slightly swollen, a nervous smile on his mouth.

“Buck,” Steve breathes.

“I’ll give you two some time.” Dr. Cho winks at Steve before standing, and she squeezes Bucky’s arm reassuringly when she passes him.

When the doors close behind her, they’re alone in the room and the silence grows almost uncomfortable as Bucky stares at Steve with nothing in his expression giving away what he’s thinking.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, breaking the silence. Bucky shuffles his feet and nods, glancing down at the floor. “I mean it. I’m - I am in a terrible place right now, but I had no business saying those things and hurting you. The last thing I ever want to do is hurt you,”  _ you’re just like Brock,  _ the evil little voice says to him, but Steve ignores it for now, “and I know I keep doing exactly that, so if you’re done, I - I understand. But I need you to know that you don’t deserve any of it, and you don’t deserve my assumption that you’d leave me when shit got hard. It wasn’t fair. You were right, all along, and I’m sorry.”

“Fuck, Rogers.” Bucky lets a noisy breath out and stares at the ceiling. Steve watches his throat move as Bucky swallows before talking. “You make it real hard to stay pissed at you, you know that?”

“I think you’re probably the first person ever to think that.” Steve half-smiles, but it’s a genuine half-smile.

Bucky lowers his eyes to where Steve sits on the bed and shrugs. “I sorta like your mug,” Bucky comments nonchalantly. He walks towards the bed with his hands shoved in his pockets. “Got used to it. Feels lame to just give up on it now.”

“Well, you’re in luck because this mug’s the only thing the serum didn’t really change,” Steve tries to smile, but Bucky sits with a frown.

“Do you resent me?”

“Do I--” Steve gapes at him, flabbergasted. “Why would I ever resent you?”

“Because.” Bucky runs a tired hand through his hair, not meeting his eyes for the moment. “If … if the chair hadn’t been there, if they’d hadn’t lured me into that trap, you might not have-”

“No.” Steve speaks as firmly as he can, and he reaches out to take Bucky’s hand, squeezing it tightly. “Buck. No, I don’t - I don’t even regret it. I know it doesn’t seem like that right now, on account of me bein’ such a brat, but I could never, ever regret pulling that trigger, or losin’ the serum, if means you’re okay.” 

Bucky looks up at him, clearly holding something back, and Steve shakes his head desperately. 

“I love you so much,” Steve croaks out. “And - and I can be a coward about things sometimes, I know, but I love you no matter what, no matter how … how  _ normal  _ I’ll be from now on.”

“Normal isn’t a bad thing,” Bucky whispers, staring back at him, worry in his expression. “It isn’t - and, that’s … that’s something I’ve been afraid of the last few weeks.”

“What?” Steve frowns in concern. “Please tell me?” He asks when Bucky doesn’t elaborate.

“I could see you were struggling.” Bucky strokes his hands up and down Steve’s forearm. “And I knew you were devastated and trying not to show anymore, but I got to thinkin’, which we both know is dangerous for me, but - I got to thinking that maybe with you feeling this way … what if you believe that we need … danger, or chaos, or whatever, to work as a couple?”

“Do you think that?”

“Not at all.” Bucky quirks his lips up in an approximation of a smile. “But you were always saying, even before DC that you thought you needed a war, that you were soldier, and I wasn’t” -- and truthfully, it was Steve’s major arguing point for Bucky not being forced to join the Avengers, “But now that you can’t fight the way you used to...I guess… I guess I’m just afraid you believe that we can only love each other in the crucible of war.”

Steve’s already crying before Bucky finishes. “It’s not true,” Steve says, crying. “I was wrong - I was so wrong, Buck, and I know I got a lot to work on, and I know it’s gonna take time, and if you need to be away from me while I work on it, I understand - but I was wrong before. I did always need war, but now I need something different.”

“Yeah?” Bucky gets up from his chair and makes Steve scoot over so he can lie down on the bed next to him. He puts his head on Steve’s shoulder, curling up into his side, and Steve strokes Bucky’s hair the way he used to when they were in bed together in happier times. “What’s that?”

“You,” Steve says easily, the easiest truth to confess. “I need you more than I ever needing fighting. I need you, and I need a life with everyone I love, and I need to let go of my fear of who I am without the shield. And I don’t know how long it’ll be before I can reconcile that. Before I can reconcile how much I’ve changed, and how much I’ve lost.”

“I’ll be here,” Bucky inserts assertively. “Every step of the way, unless you don’t … want me there?”

“I do.” Steve presses his lips into the top of Bucky’s head and wraps an arm around him. “I want you just as much as I need you.”

“That’s all anyone can ask for,” Bucky points out, and Steve smiles down at him. “You’re the same man, you know.”

“Hm?”

“You’re the same man you were when you were Captain America,” Bucky whispers. He pushes himself up to glare at Steve slightly, and the eye contact burns. “There isn’t a Before Steve and an After Steve. You’re Steve, and you’re the same with or without that serum.”

“Sure,” Steve makes a face. “Just a little slower, a little weaker, and a little more fragile.”

“I love you.” Bucky’s voice cracks, but he doesn’t break eye contact. “I’ve loved you almost every day I’ve known you, and I love you more every day. And I don’t care if you think you’re  _ less  _ now - I love you  _ more _ every day that I get to spend with you, serum or no serum, and I’ll keep loving you until you accept that. And if you never do, I’ll still love you.”

Steve squeezes Buck’s hand, and they lay together peacefully after Bucky lies back down and kisses his shoulder, which is smaller now that the serum isn’t pumping through his system and he hasn’t been eating or exercising - but Bucky’s kissing his shoulder, and his shoulder is strong enough for Bucky to lay his head on it, and his stomach, while thinner than it was, and flatter, can feel Bucky’s hand stirring circles on it, and his headache feels a little less important with Bucky’s breath on his neck, and his arms, his weak arms, can wrap around Bucky and hold him tight.

His body isn’t perfect, and it probably never will be again; his body went from being broken, to useless, to hated, to borrowed, to tested, to adored, to glorified, to broken again - but it’s his body. It’s his body.  _ His,  _ not the government’s, not the American people’s, not Erksine’s, not SHIELD’s, and not the dark little voice inside of him telling him otherwise - it belongs to Steve Grant Rogers.

It’s not a perfect body, but it’s his, and he’ll use it to love James Buchanan Barnes, until the end of the line. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only the epilogue left!!!!! Some time skip involved, and I can promise fluff and smut in chapter 20.
> 
>  
> 
>  _Notes_  
>  I had a different style for the ASL passages between Steve and Clint, with <> marking the dialogue, but then I figured that, while I've done something similar in the past, might not work if anyone's using a screen reader, so I tried to simplify it as much as possible while still making it clear they were using ASL. 
> 
> Steve has an emotional moment with Bucky at the end, but he's most certainly going to be exhausted after that conversation/pile of revelations, and I for one am glad he's going to therapy. Please assume he'll remain in therapy for a very healthy amount of time with our friend Wendy.
> 
> Also, I'm not sure how everyone's feeling about the choice to de-serum Steve in this part of the story, but please do know that I really did plan on this arc since the beginning of the first fic in this series (and AIM really did pop up in chapter 2 of that fic, with the lizard robots who are eagerly scanning and studying our boi). Don’t give up on my yet though — check out that epilogue (and eventually. Part three...) to see where that landed
> 
>  
> 
> ANYWAY thank you for reading and I'm sure you can expect a lengthy and emotional gooey end note at the end of the epilogue (comin to a screen near you very soon)


	20. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Steve find a peaceful life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's the end!
> 
> Judging by (at least) one very unhappy commenter from the last chapter, I can tell de-serum Steve wasn't beloved by all - but, thanks to those of you who expressed your discomfort in a polite way! I always love chatting about decisions when people are polite. 
> 
> Anyway, I really like this epilogue, and it's the vision I had in mind when I started this series, so I hope I pulled it off. It's simple, it's short, and I hope it's as sweet for you as it was for me.
> 
> There is some mild smut near the beginning as a heads up! Figured I owed you at least a little after all the nonsense

_ February 20, 2017 _

“Your toes are too cold.”

“Hm?” Bucky lifts his head from the pillow and smirks over at Steve. “What was that?” He digs his toes in a little more to Steve’s calves, and listens as his boyfriend grumbles irately.

“I said,” Steve turns to face him in the warm, soft bed that he had built what feels like a lifetime ago, “That your toes are cold, Barnes.”

“Bad circulation, I guess.” Bucky bumps his nose against Steve’s, and when Steve makes a face, Bucky cackles. “My nose too cold, too?”

“Bet your ass it’s too cold-” Steve yelps a second later as Bucky nuzzles him borderline aggressively, rubbing his nose up and down Steve’s whiskered cheek and burrowing into his neck. “Jerk!”

“Punk.” Bucky sighs contentedly and wiggles in closer to Steve. “How the fuck are you so warm?”

“Because I wear socks to bed,” Steve says primly. “Keeps all the warm air in.”

“...That’s not a thing.”

“It’s totally a thing.” Bucky smiles, eyes closed, as Steve sniffs with great dignity. “Fine. Don’t believe me. I just lived through the Depression  _ and  _ the second world war.”

“Aww, you almost pulled on a heartstring, there.” Bucky pulls back to smile at Steve with drowsy eyes. 

The sun hasn’t even risen yet on the small cabin in the woods of upstate New York, the tiny refuge built by Steve in the months before the Chituari arrived, and a grey but beautiful light permeates the cozy space. A warm bubble of happiness builds in Bucky’s chest, fond and expanding what seems like infinitely. They’d fallen asleep less than half an hour of their arrival last night, having driven through shit traffic for most of the evening; they hadn’t even gotten up to anything fun (okay, so maybe Bucky had pushed his hand down Steve’s pants only to be met with the sight of Steve’s uvula as he yawned massively, right in Bucky’s face, which had effectively killed the mood) before falling asleep under piles of covers.

“Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.” Steve flops a hand over his eyes dramatically and groans. “Couldn’t you have dug your ice cubes into me a little later?”

“It’s 5:30, you big baby.” Bucky kisses Steve’s collarbone, exposed slightly by the thermal henley he’s wearing. He follows the line of it greedily, his tongue flicking out to taste the sleep-warm skin stretched over it. “Gotta wake up sometime.”

“I guess.” Steve’s exasperation doesn’t sound so solid now; if anything, his voice has taken on a distinctive rasp that can only mean one thing: Bucky’s winning.

“You guess.” 

Bucky kisses up Steve’s neck, his fingers curling around Steve’s hip and pulling him in slightly, careful not to grip too hard (he’d left bruises on him, once, back in December when they resumed having sex, bruises that didn’t fade right away, and in the ensuing panic attack, Bucky fully understood how Steve must have felt since stepping out of Erksine’s machine, like he could only break the world by walking through it). Bucky gets to the edge of the full beard Steve sports this day and then skims his nose along Steve’s sharp jawline, ignoring the bristle of the prickly hairs and instead enjoying the sharp inhalation through Steve’s nose. 

“If you want to go back to sleep…” Bucky hums thoughtfully and moves as though to roll away, but Steve’s hand comes up quickly under the blankets and hauls him back in, palm against the small of Bucky’s back, fingers long and firm on his skin, pinkie brushing the top of Bucky’s ass.

The movement brings Bucky’s hip against the very apparent evidence of Steve’s interest in the proceedings, and Bucky smirks, feeling flushed and victorious. He brings his eyes up to Steve’s, the bright blue of them still overwhelming over a year since they started dating.

“Is that a no?”

“Goddamnit, Buck.” Steve kisses him fiercely, fingers pressing into his back as he holds him close, and Bucky kisses back all too eagerly. 

The kiss gentles after the first few intense moments, but it’s no less passionate as Steve traces his tongue along Bucky’s bottom lip; he hums, as though appreciating the fullness of it (distantly, Bucky thinks they should brush their teeth, but the thought is lost when Steve bites ever so gently on his lip), and after Bucky tries to return the favor, Steve somehow turns the tables and sucks on the tip of his tongue.

Bucky groans, his hips jerking from the sensation combined with Steve’s hand drifting lower to firmly grip his ass, and after Steve groans in return from the movement allowing their cocks to line up perfectly under the blankets, their hips roll in tandem, creating a slow and blissful friction that Bucky  _ knows  _ isn’t sustainable and is  _ barely  _ comfortable in the moment, but it’s delicious enough to ignore those two facts for the time being.

The heat under the covers becomes a little too much to handle quickly, and Bucky tugs impatiently on the waistband of Steve’s pajama pants, hoping to relieve some of the layers over them, without sacrificing the comfort of the blankets. 

“Impatient little thing,” Steve huffs with faux indignation, and he shifts, helping Bucky pull his pants over his hips. 

Bucky doesn’t need to have the blankets pulled back to envision the way Steve’s cock springs free, and in his head he can definitely see the way the head of it slaps against Steve’s skin; he can see how thick and gorgeous it is, the pre-cum pearling at the tip if he pulls back the foreskin, and while he does want to get his eyes (and his mouth) on it later, he contents himself in the lazy warmth of the moment and wraps his hand around the length, giving an experimental stroke.

Steve responds with a contented, rough hum in the back of his throat, a noise that makes Bucky’s skin flame even more, and a few seconds later, Steve’s tugging Bucky’s boxers down his hips, clearly eager to return the favor.

They trade open-mouthed, sloppy kisses while they work, and Bucky’s proud that it’s Steve whose self-control breaks first; he begins to fuck into Bucky’s fist, his hips moving with an undeniable determination, his own hand becoming looser on Bucky’s cock. Bucky can’t complain, not when he loves watching Steve become wrecked like this, his fair skin flushing, his shirt riding up to expose the firm planes of his flat stomach, his blue eyes glassy as he gasps Bucky’s name and an  _ I love you  _ that scorches Bucky from the inside out, like the sun has snuck into their cabin hideaway and lit it on fire.

“Love you,” Bucky whispers into Steve’s mouth on the next kiss, and Steve moans back - Buck swallows the sound and tucks it away inside of himself, letting it become a part of himself - before his hips move more spastically, his come splattering over his stomach and Bucky’s fist.

“Breakfast?” Bucky asks teasingly a second later, and Steve, panting and red-faced, gives him A Look.

“Sure.” Steve kisses him, and it feels a bit competitive, but with Steve’s hands tight on his hip, and Bucky’s cock still leaking against his stomach, he can’t complain against the fierceness of it. “In a minute.”

“A minute?” Bucky’s teasing is undercut by the mildly pathetic way he thrusts his hips forward, silently asking for some kind of friction and relief. “Someone is awfully confident.”

He gets another kiss for his teasing before Steve pulls back, an ornery twinkle in his eye. “Time me.”

“What?” Bucky splutters with laughter. “I’m not going to time how fast you can give me a handie, Steve, that’s so weird-’

“Who said anything about a handie?” 

Before Bucky can comment, Steve ducks under the covers, and Bucky gasps as his cock is gripped by something wet and very, very hot.

“Motherfu-” Bucky threads his fingers through Steve’s hair. “Can you even breathe down there, sweetheart?”

He can  _ feel  _ Steve rolling his eyes, and can imagine him saying  _ if you can ask that question, I’m not doin’ my job right,  _ and sure enough, Steve dedicates himself even more to the task at hand a second later, one hand playing with Bucky’s balls as his mouth and tongue do obscene things to the rest of his cock.

It takes forty-five seconds, and when Steve re-emerges, more flushed than ever, his lips swollen as he grins delightedly up at Bucky, Bucky mumbles a few protests before hauling Steve in for a kiss that lasts five seconds before he declares that they  _ definitely  _ need to brush their teeth.

Breakfast is a simple affair, just some eggs for Bucky and bacon and waffles for Steve; they eat in the nook with an east-facing window, and when the sun spills over the rolling hills, reaching its warm fingers through the thick trees, Steve’s hair illuminates like he’s part of the sun itself.

In a way, Bucky supposes that’s true.

Steve looks the most well-rested he ever has in the time that Bucky has known him; while he knows the transition away from Captain America has been difficult for his boyfriend, there’ve been too many positives to him letting go of the shield, positives that Steve finds and continues to find every day. For instance, they never could have gone on this impromptu trip up to Steve’s cabin during Bucky’s mid-winter recess, and the framed photograph that sits on the wall over the couch in their living room (the one of them cheesing and smiling up at the camera in a selfie, the Grand Canyon stretching behind them) wouldn’t exist.

It’s a quiet life, and Bucky knows Steve is learning how to fill the stillness of it, is learning how to not fight the stillness of it, but it’s their life, and he likes to think Steve is happy. He certainly acts happy, and his blue eyes are brighter than they were, and they’re bright all the time now, not just when he thinks Bucky is looking at him, or a small moment delights him. Steve whistles into silence now, and his fingernails are often dirty with day old dried paint, and Bucky finds streaks of blue and red and gold behind Steve’s ears most days - he’s learning how to carve wood, and he sat patiently through Nat’s knitting lesson last week before revealing that he could knit and crochet better than all of Bubbe’s friends could. 

“What do you want to do today?” Bucky asks, sliding his fork across the yolk of his eggs, admiring the way the yellow pools, stretching out across the plate. 

When he looks up, he sees Steve smirking at him.

“I mean  _ besides  _ me,” Bucky teases, and Steve, the bastard, doesn’t even blush. “That only takes up, what, an hour? Two?”

Steve puts on a stern face. “I intend to fill at least three hours that way, Buck.”

“Sure you do.” Bucky snorts.

The look he receives from Steve sends shivers down his spine, and he imagines what will happen in response to his cheekiness - that look is  _ full  _ Captain Rogers, and it suggests no mercy. Bucky thrills, and his cock, which had been slightly exhausted by their roll in the bed this morning, begins to fill with interest.

“But I guess we could go for a walk.”

Bucky smiles, knowing that they’ll definitely be returning to this later, and he nods, taking another bite of his eggs. 

“A walk sounds great.”

* * *

 

Their day is peaceful, in a way Bucky wouldn’t have thought they could afford six months ago. They see at least a dozen deer, and Steve is so delighted by the bear that appears, trundling through the trees five hundred feet away, that he’s almost impossible to drag him away to a more safe location. 

Lunch is spent next to a river, the water flowing by and casting fractured light around the clearing as they eat sandwiches quietly. Bucky pulls his fingers through Steve’s hair, admiring the gold strands against his skin, and smiles when Steve drifts off for a nap within two minutes. He doesn’t bother to wake him up for almost half an hour, and their clasped hands swing between them as they walk back to the cabin, their noses and cheeks red from the cold, and aching from smiling. 

It begins to snow as they walk up the path towards the front door, and Bucky tilts his head back for a second to admire the flakes spiraling from the sky. He lets out a puff of air, smiling at the cloud it creates, and he’s still grinning when he drops his gaze to look at Steve.

Steve’s staring at him, something profoundly larger than quiet in his eyes.

“What is it?” When he doesn’t answer, Bucky squeezes his hand and smirks. “Got somethin’ on my face?”

“No.” Steve’s voice is hoarse, and Bucky feels a flicker of surprise. Steve usually only sounds that wrecked when he’s trying not to cry or when he’s collapsed after sex. “No, Buck, that isn’t it.”

“What is it, then?”

“I’ve been thinkin’ we need to have a conversation.” Bucky’s face must say something because Steve steps forward with an anxious shake of his head, a half-smile on his beautiful mouth. “No. No, babydoll, not a - not a bad conversation. Not at all.”

“Oh.” Bucky feels his shoulders relax; he hadn’t even felt them tense him. “Okay.” His smile is back as he looks up at Steve, snowflakes starting to catch on his eyelashes.

“I’ve been meaning to ask-”

They’re both wearing layers, flannels over thermal henleys, all under a coat, but somehow the snow makes its way past all those defenses to trickle down Bucky’s back. He shivers involuntarily, wrinkling his nose at the unpleasant cold, and Steve ducks his head and laughs, his own breath crystallizing in front of him.

“We can talk about it inside, babydoll.”

Bucky nods eagerly, and tugs Steve’s hand. They pass the half-chopped wood stacked in front of the cabin, and Bucky nods at it. “Should we grab some?”

“Yeah.” Steve pushes Bucky forward gently, up onto the porch where he’s out of the snow at least. “I’ll grab it.”

Bucky leans against the wall of the cabin, a foot propped up on the wood as he watches Steve bend and gather a length of firewood. He watches as Steve eyes the axe, buried in the ground next to him, with a thoughtful glance.

“Y’know, back when I was Captain America, I could rip this shit in half with my bare hands.” Steve looks down at the wood he’s holding, his ungloved fingers in a small crevasse that Bucky can see from here.

“Is that so?” Bucky isn’t always sure of what to say when Steve brings up his time as Captain America in the past, but he knows not acknowledging it isn’t helpful.

“Yep.” Steve doesn’t look or sound bitter in his nostalgia at all; instead, he lets his breath out, grips the wood with his hands, and pulls, the coat tightening over his biceps as he does.

The wood falls in two, clean pieces on either side of him. 

“Guess you don’t need to be Captain America to do that,” Steve comments, picking up the pieces and smirking at Bucky.

“Guess you don’t,” Bucky agrees. “Now come inside, Rogers, my balls are freezing.”

“I can fix that.” Steve walks up to the porch, his arms full of firewood, and stomps his boots to clear them of mud and lingering snow clumps. 

“Romantic to the end.” Bucky opens the door for Steve, and stands outside for a minute longer, his face turned up to the sky. 

The wind moves around him, cold but not bitter, strong but not fierce, and he closes his eyes. He can feel the warmth of the cabin on his back, welcoming him in from the cold, and in it, he swears he can feel the distant echo of laughter, the arms of his sister around his waist, his mother’s lips on his temple, his father’s hand on his shoulder. He swears he can feel Zayde standing tall and proud, his bubbe at his side, and the grief he used to feel when he thought of them settles and turns into something that cuts so much deeper than grief, but doesn’t hurt at all. 

Bucky takes one breath, and another, in front of the warm light, his face turned up to a grey and endless sky. The inescapable feeling of being home wraps around him, and he lets out a soft sigh of happiness. 

It’s a good life, after all.

“Stevie?” Bucky brushes some snow out of his hair as he turns around. “What was it you wanted to talk about?”

He steps into the cabin, hand on the door knob to close it behind him.

Steve’s on one knee, a ring in his trembling fingers, and a nervous sort of joy in his blue eyes.

Bucky smiles as home settles even deeper behind his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you from the bottom of my heart for all your support when I was writing this. I hope some part of it resonated with you, and I hope to continue this universe with happy one shots whenever possible. You all were a dream to write for, and I can't express my gratitude to a successful degree. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading and listening, and thank you to everyone (except you, Endgame).
> 
>  
> 
> (ps, that firewood scene IS a reference to what you think it is, and yes it DOES mean what you think it means— Somehow Steve can rip firewood apart just like he could in age of ultron .... hmmmm)

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!!!!!!!! xoxo


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